Bppletons' 

Uown  a^  Country 

Xibrarg 

No.  177 


SCYLLA  OR   CHARYBDIS? 


RHODA  BROUGHTON'S  NOVELS. 


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SCYLLA    OR    CHARYBDIS? 


A   NOt/EL 


BY 

RHODA   BROUGHTQN... 

AUTHOR   OF   NANCY,    SECONrT"THOUGHTS,    A    BEGINNER,    ETC. 


NEW    YORK 

D.    APPLETON    AND    COMPANY 
1895 


COPYRIGHT,  1895, 
BY  D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY. 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS? 


CHAPTER  I. 

"  THIS  must  be  the  house,  William  !  This  must  be 
the  house  !  " 

Until  it  had  pulled  up  at  her  door,  the  occupant  of 
a  bow  window,  projecting  over  the  street,  had  not 
suspected  that  a  landau,  which  has  been  making  its 
way  with  horses  kept  to  a  walk  and  footman  uncer- 
tainly consulting  the  faces  of  succeeding  domiciles, 
had  any  visiting  intention  toward  herself.  No  sooner 
has  she  realized  this  fact  and  the  other  one,  that  a 
voice  and  a  parasol  are  waving  and  shouting  direc- 
tions from  inside,  than  she  slips  noiselessly  off  the 
cushioned  window-seat  running  round  the  embrasure, 
into  the  interior  of  the  summer-darkened  room.  Mrs. 
Clarence  is  a  shy  woman,  and  she  has  not  recognized 
either  the  voice,  the  parasol,  or  the  liveries.  She  is  a 
shy  woman, — a  good  deal  retired  from  the  world, — 
and  she  awaits  with  some  slight  trepidation  the  out- 
come of  the  incident. 

"It  is  probably  the  wrong  house,"  she  says  to 
herself. 

But  this  explanation  is  disproved  by  the  fact  that 
the  footman's  resounding  rap  is  followed  shortly  by 


2  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

an  undoubted  admittance,  by  a  strange  step  on  the 
stairs,  and  by  the  parlor  maid's  announcement  of  a 
splendid  rustling,  chatelaine-clattering  "  Lady  B rams- 
hill."  To  the  modest  mouse-color-clad  lady  upon 
whom  it  is  sprung,  the  title  is  as  unfamiliar  as  the 
rest  of  the  vision. 

"  Why  do  not  you  have  your  number  on  your 
door  ?  "  asks  the  intruder,  in  a  loudish  but  not  dis- 
agreeable voice.  "  How  is  one  to  find  you  out  ?  " 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  but  they  are  renumbering  the 
street — changing  the  numbers.  I  do  not  quite  know 
why." 

"  I  asked  which  was  No.  22  at  the  White  Hart, 
and  the  secretary  said  she  did  not  know7,  but  the  hall- 
porter  would.  I  asked  the  hall  porter,  and  he  said 
he  did  not  know,  but  the  policeman  would.  I  asked 
the  policeman,  and  he  said  he  did  not  know,  but  that 
the  milkman  would.  I  asked  the  milkman — or,  at 
least,  I  made  William,  my  footman,  ask  him — and  he 
said  he  did  not  know,  but  that  the  postman  would. 
I  asked  the  postman — and,  c;//?;?,  I  am  here  !" 

Mrs.  Clarence  has  thought  her  visitor's  opening 
speech  as  tiresome  as  her  appearance  at  all  is  unac- 
counted for. 

"  It  is  evident  that  I  am  not  much  known  to  fame 
in  St.  Gratian,"  she  replies,  with  a  shy  smile  and  an 
inward  hope  that  her  face  does  not  betray  her  total 
ignorance  of  her  visitor's  identity.  But  that  hope  is 
not  long  left  to  her. 

"  You  have  not  the  foggiest  idea  who  I  am,"  says 
that  visitor  good-humoredly,  but  not  even  attempt- 
ing to  give  her  remark  an  interrogatory  shape. 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ?  3 

"  Well,  I  cannot  return  the  left-handed  compliment, 
for  I  certainly  should  have  known  you  anywhere." 

"  Should  you  ?  "  with  a  distressed  and  timid  glance 
at  the  portly  and  prosperous  expanse  before  her,  as 
if  to  evoke  thereby  some  helpful  memory  ;  but  none 
such  comes,  and  she  can  only  murmur  :  "Lady 
Uramshill." 

The  other  laughs. 

"  That  will  not  help  you.  My  name  is  as  new  as 
my  gloves,  which  I  put  on  to  do  you  honor — and 
much  too  small  they  are  !  I  cannot  imagine  why 
the  shops  have  altered  all  the  sizes  !  It  is  not  three 
months  since  my  judge  was  given  a  peerage." 

My  judge  !  The  visitor  is,  then,  the  wife  of  a 
dignitary  of  the  law.  But  Mrs.  Clarence  scans  the 
horizon  of  her  narrow  acquaintance  in  vain.  No 
judge  rises,  beneficent  and  rescuing,  upon  it. 

"  I  think  he  appeared  on  the  scene  after  you  had 
left  Green  Leigh." 

At  the  mention  of  this  name — that  of  a  place 
which  she  had  quitted  a  quarter  of  a  century  ago, 
and  where  she  had  spent  the  five  years  of  her  wife- 
hood — a  place  even  more  infinitely  remote  in  the 
spirit's  calendar  than  in  that  of  the  body — Mrs. 
Clarence  gives  a  slight  start. 

"  Life  is  a  system  of  compensations,"  continues 
Lad\r  Bramshill  cheerfully  ;  "he  rose  on  my  horizon 
as  you  disappeared  over  it.  As  soon  as  I  was  married 
I  went  to  India.  We  did  not  come  back,  except  to 
put  the  children  to  school,  until  last  year.  Have  you 
any  glimmering  of  a  notion  as  to  who  I  am  now  f  " 

A  pleased  confidence  in  an  immediate  joyous  recog- 


4  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

nition  following  upon  these  indications  is  legibly 
written  across  her  features,  and  upon  Mrs.  Clarence's 
memory  there  rises  the  cloudy  figure  of  a  big-framed, 
thin  young  woman,  the  bustling  eldest  of  the  Vicar- 
age brood  at  her  gates — a  young  woman  of  her  own 
age,  who,  in  that  immeasurable  distance,  had  served 
her  as  friend.  But  the  outline  is  still  so  nebulous 
that  her  visitor  has  time  for  a  look  of  disappointment 
and  a  rather  crestfallen  "I  know  that  I  have  expanded 
a  good  deal,"  before  the  person  to  whom  she  seems  to 
herself  to  have  disclosed  so  unmistakably  her  person- 
ality proffers  hesitatingly,  in  a  faint  and  dubious  key  : 

"  Not  Marion  Baynes  ?  " 

"You  make  me  doubt  my  own  identity  when  you 
question  it  in  that  voice  ! "  cries  Lady  Bramshill, 
with  a  touch  of  good-humored  mortification.  "  Ara 
I,  then,  so  absolutely  unrecognizable?  Wlnr,  I  should 
have  known  you  to  be  Lucy  Clarence  anywhere." 

"  Ah,  but  you  must  remember  what  an  advantage 
you  had  over  me  !  "  replies  the  other,  in  distressed 
apology.  "You  were  expecting  to  see  me,  while 

I No  doubt  if  I  had  been  prepared  for  our 

meeting,  I,  too,  should " 

But  the  fib  dies  on  her  lips.  Under  no  circum- 
stances of  preparation  could  she  have  extracted  from 
the  plethoric  and  diamond-earringed  area  before  her 
the  scraggy  form  of  the  comrade  of  her  early  matron- 
hood. 

"I  dare  say  you  will  find  that  my  inside  is  not  as 
much  changed  as  my  outside,"  says  the  area,  with  a 
philosophic  laugh  at  her  quondam  friend's  vain  at- 
tempt. "  It  was  by  the  merest  chance  that  I  learned 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  5 

you  were  living  here.  I  was  in  Deane's  shop, — 
the  draper  >n  Abbey  Street,  you  know, — and  I  heard 
one  of  the  shopmen  say  to  another,  'Has  Mrs.  Clar- 
ence's mantle  been  sent  home?'  I  pricked  up  my 
ears  at  once,  for  it  is  not  a  common  name  :  you  are 
the  only  Clarence  I  know  of  without  a  'Fitz.'" 

"Am  I?" 

"  I  immediately  began  to  question  him  about  you, 
and  when  I  found  that  you  were  a  widow  lady,  with 
dark  hair  and  eyes,  and  only  lately  come  to  the  town, 
I  thought  1  had  enough  to  go  upon  to  justify  my  try- 
ing to  find  out  whether  you  were  my  Mrs.  Clarence. 
But  what  a  chance  it  was  !  " 

"  Yes,  quite  a  chance  !  " 

"He  told  me" — speaking  more  slowly  and  doubt- 
fully— "that  he  thought  you  lived  alone." 

Her  eyes  have  wandered  round  the  room  as  if  to 
gather  indications  as  to  the  truth  or  falsehood  of  this 
fact,  and  come  back  with  a  sort  of  apprehension  to 
her  hostess'  face. 

"I  am  alone  most  of  the  day,  and  I  am  alone  just 
now  ;  but  my  son  lives  with  me." 

"  Your  son  ?  "  (drawing  a  long  breath  of  relief). 
"  Oh,  thank  goodness  that  is  all  right !  I  was  almost 
afraid  to  ask.  Such  dreadful  things  happen  to  people, 
and  when  the  shopman  said  that  you  lived  alone,  I 
thought — I  feared  that  he  might — might  be " 

"  Oli,  do  not  suggest  it ! "  interrupts  the  mother, 
with  a  sort  of  cry,  her  natural  gentleness  conquered 
by  the  superstitious  impulse  to  avert  the  dread  word 
hovering  on  her  questioner's  lip.  "Should  I  be  here 
if  he  were  ?  What  have  I  to  live  for  but  him  ?  " 


6  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

In  answer  to  this  ejaculation  the  visitor  gives  a  sort 
of  friendly,  dissentient  grunt,  while  her  look  travels 
with  significant  admiration  over  the  still  eminently 
charming  form  before  her ;  the  slight  figure,  on 
which  the  baleful  elderly  spread  has  not  yet  laid  its 
thickening  hand  ;  the  close-grained,  petal-textured 
skin,  the  fine  abundance  of  the  inky  hair,  and  the 
pathos  of  the  antelope  eyes. 

"  H'm  !  I  should  think  you  had  as  much  to  live  for 
as  most  women,  though  why  you  should  elect  to  live 
here " 

"It  is  very  quiet,"  replies  the  other,  recovering  the 
restful  softness  of  her  normal  manner,  and  looking  a 
little  ashamed  of  her  unusual  outbreak,  "and  I  do 
not  know  anyone  here.  Of  course," — with  a  pretty, 
pensive  smile,  which  shows  her  admiring  and  a  little 
envious  coeval  that  her  teeth  are  in  as  good  repair  as 
the  rest  of  the  fabric, — "old  friends  are  different,  but 
I  do  not  wish  to  make  new  acquaintances." 

"  Why  not,  in  Heaven's  name  ?  " 

"  I  have  lived  so  long  out  of  the  world  that  I  have 
lost  the  habit  of  it.  If  you  remember" — a  slight 
curve  of  the  fine  cheek  which  only  needs  develop- 
ment to  become  another  smile — "  I  never  had  much 
to  say.  Well,  now  I  have  nothing !" 

"If  you  went  out  more,  you  would  soon  find 
plenty  ;  my  difficulty  is" — laughing — "  that  I  always 
have  too  much.  Well,  after  all  " — jollily — "  it  is  a 
fault  on  the  right  side.  But  what  does  your  boy 
say  to  your  shutting  yourself  up  ?  " 

"  J/y  boy?"  with  a  tinge  of  proud  amusement. 
"  Do  you  know  how  old  and  how  big  my  boy  is?" 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  7 

"  Of  course  I  cannot  say  as  to  his  size,  but  how 
old  ?  " — musingly — "  why,  good  Heavens  !  he  must  be 
eight-and-twenty.  It  is  five-and-twenty  years  since 
you  left  Green  Leigh,  and  he  was  three  years  old 
then." 

"Yes,  he  is  eight-and-twenty.5' 

"Good  Heavens!"  with  another  and  yet  more 
astounded  glance  at  the  slender  outline  and  the  dark 
hair,  "  it  is  incredible !  you  are  a  walking  fraud 
upon  society  !  " 

"  And  he  is  always  there  to  show  me  up." 

There  is  such  profound  and  joyful  pride  underly- 
ing the  soft  playfulness  of  the  complaint  that  the 
idea  strikes  Lady  Bramshill  that  either  her  long-lost 
friend's  son  must  be  an  uncommonly  fine  young 
man,  or  that  her  besotment  passes  the  bounds  allotted 
to  parental  partiality. 

"  And  he  lives  with  you  ?  " 

"  He  comes  down  most  evenings." 

"  From  London  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Has  he  a  profession  ?  " 

"  He  has  just  been  called  to  the  bar.  I  expect 
him  back  to-day" — with  an  involuntarily  wistful  peep 
at  the  clock — "  from  his  first  circuit." 

"Is  not  it  rather  hard  to  work  the  Law  Courts 
from  here  ?  " 

"  It  is  only  an  hour  and  a  half  from  door  to  door." 

"I  should  live  in  London  if  I  were  you." 

"  Should  you  ?  " 

"  Or  what  do  you  say  to  the  suburbs  ?  " 

"  We  neither  of  us  like  the  idea  of  the  suburbs." 


8  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

"But  surely  it  is  very  bad  for  him  to  have  three 
hours  of  train  every  day  of  his  life." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  anxiously.  "But,  then,  he 
gets  into  fresher  air." 

"  Why  not  live  quite  in  the  country  ?  " 

"  He  thinks  it  would  be  so  lonely  for  me." 

"But  do  you  not  know  anyone  here  ?" 

"No." 

"  Then,  it  must  be  quite  as  lonely  to  you  as  Salis- 
bury Plain." 

Thus  driven  into  a  corner,  and  with  her  own  and 
her  son's  want  of  reasoning  powers  so  irrefragably 
demonstrated  to  her,  Mrs.  Clarence  is  meekly  silent. 

"I  am  afraid  you  will  not  like  it  when  you  get  to 
know  it,  either  ;  there  is  really  nothing  to  recom- 
mend it  ;  it  is  a  perfect  Sleepy  Hollow." 

"  Perhaps  that  is  its  recommendation  to  me.  I  am 
rather  sleepy,  too." 

"  The  churches  of  course  are  beautiful,  architectur- 
ally, and  I  believe  the  choirs  are  good  ;  but  one  can- 
not live  on  oriel  windows  and  Gregorian  chants." 

"  I  should  be  sorry  to  try,  but  I  like  the  services." 

"Oh,  you  are  churchy,  are  you?"  in  a  tone  of 
good-humored  discontent. 

"Your  accent" — with  a  low  laugh — "says  that 
you  are  not !  " 

"  Well,  of  course  I  ought  to  be — a  parson's 
daughter,  and  all  that ;  but  I  suppose  it  is  a  case  of 
the  grocer's  boy  and  the  raisins.  I  remember  now 
that  you  were  always  inclined  to  be  a  saint  in  the 
old  days." 

"7?" 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  9 

"  Yes,  you !  you  !  In  a  quiet  way,  I  mean,  and 
with  no  blowing  of  trumpets.  My  father  always 
said  so,  and  in  his  day  he  was  reckoned  rather  an 
authority,  though  they  would  think  small-beer  enough 
of  him  now.  My  father  dead  ?  Oh,  yes,  bless  you  ! 
years  ago,  and  so  are  most  of  my  brothers  and 
sisters  ;  in  fact,  I  should  be  lonely  and  dismal  enough 
if  I  had  not  happily  made  plenty  of  new  ties " — 
relapsing  into  cheerfulness — "plenty,  indeed,  with  a 
vengeance  !  " 

"  You  mean  that  you  have  children?" 

For  answer  the  visitor  lifts  the  gloved  hands  of 
whose  tightness  she  had  complained,  and,  holding 
them  up,  expands  the  fingers. 

"  I  am  ashamed  to  pronounce  the  word,  but  that  is 
the  number  :  nine  male  and  one  female  hostages  to 
fortune,  not  counting  the  judge." 

«  Ten  ?  " 

"Yes,  ten  !  The  one  female  hostage  is  sitting 
outside  in  the  carriage  at  this  moment.  I  would  not 
let  her  come  in,  because  I  thought  that  if  it  were  not 
you  she  should  not  witness  my  discomfiture,  and  that 
if  it  icere  you,  she  would  be  in  the  way." 

"  Will  not  she  come  in  ?  "  asks  Mrs.  Clarence,  with 
shy  hospitality.  "  May  I  send  down  and  ask  her  to 
come  in?  Is  she — grown  up?" 

"  She  is  five  feet  seven  and  a  half  " — proudly — 
"and  only  just  turned  eighteen;  a  very  pretty  girl, 
too,  though  I  say  it  that  should  not — not  that  I  ever 
see  why  one  should  not.  But  do  not  send  for  her  ; 
we  do  better  without  her,  and  I  hope  you  will  have 
many  opportunities  of  cultivating  her  acquaintance  ; 


10  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

or  if  your  curiosity  about  her  is  very  lively,  peep  at 
her  between  the  slats  of  your  Venetian  blinds.  By 
the  by,  why  do  you  have  Venetians?  they  are  always 
getting  out  of  order.  Why  not  those  nice  matting 
ones  instead?" 

In  obedience  to  the  mother's  suggestion,  Mrs. 
Clarence  peeps  downward  as  directed  between  the 
slats  of  the  Venetians.  Then  she  draws  back  her 
neck. 

"  She  is  extremely  pretty,"  is  her  comment.  It  is 
polite,  but  the  parent  detects  a  want  of  enthusiasm. 

"Of  course  it  is  not  a  becoming  angle  to  look  at 
anyone  from  ;  the  top  of  her  hat  and  the  tip  of  her 
nose  do  not  give  a  quite  adequate  idea  of  her,  but 
she  is  pretty  !  Whom  she  got  it  from,  who  shall 
say?"  —  with  a  laugh.  "It  is  one  of  those  mysterious 
throw-backs,  I  suppose,  but  she  is.  It  is  such  a 
mercy  that  she  is  the  girl.  The  nine  boys  are  all  one 
plainer  than  another." 


"Yes,  nine!  We  ran  rather  short  of  Christian 
names  toward  the  end,  and  we  have  overstocked  all 
the  professions  ;  however,  it  is  a  fault  on  the  right 
side.  It  is  safer  than  having  everything  in  one  boat. 
But  I  ought  not  to  say  that  to  you,  ought  I  ?  I  have 
no  doubt  that  your  one  boat  is  perfectly  seaworthy, 
Is  he  strong  —  quite  strong  ?  I  have  a  sort  of  recol- 
lection of  your  spending  one  whole  summer  away 
from  home  at  the  seaside  ;  was  that  —  what  a  slippery 
eel  memory  is  !  —  was  that  for  his  health  ?" 

"  No,  oh,  no  !  he  has  always  been  quite  well  and 
strong." 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDISV  11 

"  To  be  sure,  I  remember  now  ;  it  was  before  he 
was  born.  And  so  he  has  never  given  you  any 
anxiety  on  that  head  ?  " 

"  Nor  on  any  other  " — with  a  low  fervency. 

"  What  a  mercy  for  you  !     He  is  not  married  ?  " 

"  No  !  "  with  a  start. 

"  Ah,  that  is  a  pleasure  to  come  !  But,  perhaps" — 
reassuringly — "  it  will  not  come — or  at  least,  not  yet 
awhile.  Let  him  smoke  all  over  the  house,  and  per- 
haps it  will  not  come  at  all." 

"He  is  twenty-eight  years  old,"  says  the  mother, 
with  a  slight  tremble  in  her  voice,  "  and  he  has  never 
shown  the  slightest  preference  for  anyone." 

"  Hasn't  he  ?  How  very  odd  !  When  he  does  take 
the  disease,  how  badly  he  will " 

She  breaks  off,  her  good-natured  if  inquisitive  eye 
realizing  by  the  look  on  her  friend's  face  what  very 
little  enjoyment  she  is  deriving  from  her  prognostics. 

"I  dare  say  that  as  long  as  he  has  you  he  will  not 
wish  for  Venus  herself.  I  suppose  " — with  a  glance  of 
kindly  admiration  at  her  hostess'  severely  simple, 
yet  dainty-detailed,  toilet — "that  it  is  for  him,  since 
you  say  that  you  have  given  up  the  world,  that  you 
are  so  beautifully  soignee." 

"  He  likes  me  to  look  neat." 

"  You  always  cared  for  your  clothes  ;  that  was  my 
chief  misgiving  when  I  came  here.  I  thought  that 
the  Mrs.  Clarence  who  would  buy  a  mantle  at  Deane's 
shop  could  not  be  yow." 

"It  was  not  for  myself,"  replies  the  other,  with  a 
slight  smile  at  the  rightness  of  her  friend's  intuition  ; 
"it  is  for  a  little  cousin  who  is  coming  to  stay  with 


12  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

me,  and  who,  living  in  the  depths  of  the  country,  will 
think  anything  that  comes  out  of  a  shop  beautiful." 

"A  girl  cousin?"  raising  her  eyebrows,  and  in  a 
tone  which,  did  she  weigh  half  a  dozen  stone  less, 
would  be  called  "  arch."  "  How  rash  !  " 

But  since,  once  again,  at  this  would-be  pleasantry, 
the  look  of  distress  which,  with  one  so  gentle,  takes 
the  place  of  anger,  clouds  her  hostess'  face,  Lady 
Bramshill  goes  off  on  a  new  line  : 

"  But  do  not  let  us  waste  time  in  making  jokes  " 
(the  visitee's  conscience  acquits  her  of  any  such  vel- 
leity),  "and  let  us  talk  about  the  past — about  poor 
dear  old  Green  Leigh." 

"  It  is  let,"  replies  the  other,  with  quiet  brevity, 
and  not  showing  any  expansive  desire  to  enlarge  upon 
her  answer. 

"  Ah  !  I  supposed  so.     On  a  long  lease  ?  " 

"  Twenty-one  years,  which  expired  four  years  ago, 
and  then  my  son  renewed  it." 

"  You  have  no  intention  of  going  back,  then  ?  " 

"  None." 

"  I  do  not  wonder ;  still,  it  is,  or  was,  a  sweet 
pretty  place."  To  this  expression  of  admiration  Mrs. 
Clarence  neither  assents,  nor  does  she  dissent  from 
it ;  and  her  friend  has  to  take  the  thread  up  again 
herself  :  "  Still,  I  can,  of  course,  perfectly  under- 
stand your  feelings."  Mrs.  Clarence's  movements 
are  all  very  gentle,  but  she  stirs  uneasily.  It  is  evi- 
dent that,  whatever  the  feelings  alluded  to  may  be, 
she  has  no  desire  for  sympathy  in,  or  reviving  of, 
them.  "Yes,  I  can  quite  understand  your  feelings  ; 
but  we  will  not  talk  of  painful  things,  will  we  ?  even 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  13 

though  it  is  such  a  long-ago  pain  as  Green  Leigh  " — • 
with  n  slight  streak  of  surprise.  "  What  I  want  to 
know,  and  what  I  dare  say  you  will  not  mind  telling 
me,  is  what  has  been  happening  to  you  all  these  years 
since  the  P.  and  O.  boat  steamed  me  out  of  your 
orbit." 

Mrs.  Clarence  looks  dreamily  round  the  room,  as  if 
seeking  for  a  good,  plump,  bouncing  event  to  offer 
her  questioner.  But  apparently  she  finds  none,  for 
she  answers  : 

"I  do  not  think  that  anything  has  happened." 
"  Nothing  happened  in  twenty-jive  years! " 
Thus  crudely  presented,  Mrs.  Clarence's  assertion 
does  sound  both  ridiculous  and  incredible,  and  she  is 
shamefacedly  conscious  of  it. 

"  I  mean,"  she  says,  faintly  coloring,  "  that  nothing 
that  matters  seems  to  have  happened — nothing  out- 
side ourselves.  We  have  led  a  very  retired  life,  and 
the  years  have  slidden  past  us  without  taking  much 
notice  of  us.  No," — smiling  more  decidedly, — "I 
cannot  conscientiously  say  that  in  the  last  quarter  of 
a  century  anything  has  happened,  except  that  Harry 
has  grown  up." 

"  Harry  !  How  glad  I  am  that  you  have  men- 
tioned his  name.  I  could  not  recall  it,  and  was 
ashamed  to  ask.  Harry!  Have  I  a  Harry?  Of 
course  I  have  !  You  could  not  mention  a  Christian 
name  of  which  I  have  not  a  specimen  !  Harry  !  I 
wonder  why  you  called  him  Harry?"  But  here, 
again,  the  person  interpellated  has  apparently  no 
reason  to  offer,  or,  at  all  events,  offers  none.  "  When 
you  left  Green  Leigh  you  settled — where  ?" 


14  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

"  I  lived  at  Margate  for  six  years." 

"  What  on  earth  possessed  you  to  do  that  ?" 

"  On  account  of  the  air." 

"I  suppose  you  had  had  a  complete  nervous  break- 
down?" 

"No,  I  had  not ;  it  was  not  for  myself." 

"  For  your  boy  ?  But  you  say  that  he  has  always 
been  perfectly  strong." 

"  So  he  has  ;  but  I  thought  it  would  be  a  good 
thing  to  have  him  well  braced  up  before  going  to 
school." 

"  Oh,  you  did  make  up  your  mind  to  send  him  to 
school  !  where?" 

"He  was  at  a  preparatory  school  at  Folkestone  till 
he  went  to  Eton." 

"  And  you  ?  " 

"I  took  a  house  at  Sandgate,  to  be  near  him." 

"And  when  he  went  to  Eton  did  you  stay  on  at 
Folkstone?" 

"No  ;  I  moved  to  Windsor." 

The  visitor  is  seized  with  a  sort  of  good-humored ly 
derisive  chuckle  at  this  last  answer. 

"  What  a  convenient  thing  to  have  onty  one  chick  ! 
I  should  have  had  to  be  cut  into  a  good  many  pieces 
if  I  had  followed  all  my  lads  to  school.  Wellington, 
Sandhurst,  Rugby,  Radley  ;  it  would  have  been  a 
case  of,  '  Give  every  town  a  limb  1 '  And  when  he 
left  Eton?" 

"  He  went  to  Oxford." 

"And  you — you  went  to  Oxford,  too  ?" 

"  Yes." 

Lady  Bramshill  breaks  into  an  uncontrollable  laugh. 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  15 

"My  dear  Lucy  !  Not  really  ?  I  never  heard  of 
any  boy's  parents,  except  Raskin's,  chaperoning  him 
through  his  university  course." 

"  Did  not  you  ?  " 

"And  did  you  escort  him  to  his  lectures  and  his 
-\vines  ?  "  —  still  laughing. 

"  I  do  not  think  that  I  made  him  ridiculous  "  —  very 
quietly,  though  an  intimate,  if  she  had  one,  might 
detect  an  accent  of  mortification.  "  He  was  at  New  ; 
he  did  not  live  with  me.  He  only  came  to  see  me 
when  he  had  a  spare  half  -hour." 

Perhaps,  though  no  longer  an  intimate,  the  visitor 
divines  that  the  rough  rallying  which  is  of  such  fre- 
quent and  successful  employ  among  her  own  robust 
and  unsensitive  brood  is  out  of  place  in  this  shy 
hermitage. 

"And  when  he  left  Oxford  he  read  for  the  bar; 
and  you  —  happily  for  me,  aiicl  unhappily  for  you  —  set 
up  your  tent-pole  in  this  dreary  little  country  town  ? 
I  know  all  about  you  now.  Xow  it  is  your  turn  ! 
Ask  me  any  and  every  question  you  feel  inclined 
about  myself  and  my  judge,  and  my  nine  ugly  boys 
and  my  one  pretty  girl  !  She  is  pretty,"  —  with 
a  streak  of  pique,  —  "though  I  know  you  do  not  be- 
lieve it." 

"  Oil,  but  indeed  I  do  !  "  distressed.  "  From  the 
glimpse  I  caught  of  her,  I  thought  her  very,  very 


Had  Lady  Bramshill  suspected  what  a  tribute  to 

laughter's  charms  was  implied  by  the  faintness 

\trs.    Clarence's    encomiums  —  Mrs.    Clarence,   to 

whom  a  pretty  girl  is  an  object  of  shrinking  terror, 


16  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

the  occasion  of  putting  to  herself  afresh  the  agonized 
question  in  her  heart's  depths,  "  Is  it  she  who  is  to 
deal  me  my  deathblow?" — her  mother's  vanity 
would  have  been  satisfied,  even  without  the  second 
and  stronger  testimony  which  she  has  forced.  Now, 
content  with  saying  : 

"  Wait  till  you  see  her  in  the  evening,"  she  goes 
on  :  "Ask  me  anything  you  feel  inclined  about  us  ; 
I  do  not  care  where  you  begin.  We  have  no  skeleton 
closets." 

Nothing  can  be  handsomer  or  more  liberal  than 
the  terms  of  the  permission  ;  but  the  person  to  whom 
it  is  given  seems  at  first  incapable  of  availing  herself 
of  it.  Between  a  nervous  fear  of  asking  amiss  and 
a  guilty  consciousness  of  her  own  lack  of  any  real 
interest  in  the  past  history  of  her  long-lost-sight-of, 
and,  to  say  the  truth,  absolutely  forgotten  friend,  she 
hesitates  so  obviously  that  the  friend  has  to  cro  to 
her  rescue. 

"  One  does  not  quite  know  where  to  begin.  It 
will  all  come  out  presently  in  bits  ;  and  you  have  not 
my  cheek — rushing  into  your  past  like  a  bull  into  a 
china  shop.  It  is  a  comfort  to  think  that  there  is  no 
hurry;  that,  since  you  are  here — I  really  cannot 
imagine  why — we  shall  have  endless  opportunities  of 
meeting." 

"  Yes  "—rather  faintly. 

"  Have  you  a  carriage  ?  No  ?  Then,  I  will  come 
or  send  for  you  ;  and,  if  I  happen  not  to  be  able  to 
do  either, — we  are  not  very  well  horsed  just  now, — I 
may  tell  you  that  they  have  very  good  flys  at  the 
White  Hart  ;  only  mind  that  you  do  not  let  them 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  17 

charge  you  four  miles — it  is  not  a  yard  more  than 
three  and  a  half  to  The  Beeches." 

If  a  certain  weak  sinking  of  the  heart  at  this  reve- 
lation of  the  near  neighborhood  of  her  garrulous 
companion,  and  of  the  only-just-seen-enough-to-be- 
alarmed-at  white  nose  tip  and  pink  straw  hat  in  the 
carriage  below,  is  perceptible  to  herself  in  Mrs. 
Clarence's  soul  at  this  hearty  speech,  she  at  least  gives 
no  outward  sign  of  it. 

"The  Beeches!"  she  repeats  civilly.  "Is  that 
your  house  ?  What  a  pretty  rural  name  !  " 

"  We  are  just  beginning  to  get  it  into  shape. 
You  must  come  and  help  us  ;  you  had  always  a  great 
deal  of  taste,  and  I  see  " — with  a  glance  at  the  arrange- 
ment of  the  low  and  unassuming  but  graceful  room — 
"  that  you  have  not  lost  it.  Give  us  an  early  day, 
and  we  will  show  you  all  our  Indian  things." 

This  last  promise  produces  a  further  inward  declen- 
sion of  the  listener's  spirits. 

"  Thank  you." 

"  Not  that  it  is  easy  to  get  anything  pretty  in 
India  now  ;  aniline  dyes  and  American  taste  have 
played  the  deuce  with  those  colors  which  used  to  be 
so  wonderfully  harmonious.  The  judge  cannot  get 
over  it." 

"  Cannot  he  ?  " 

"  He  says  that  it  is  inconceivable  what  a  change  in 
that  respect  there  is  since  he  first  went  to  India. 
But,  to  be  sure,  that  must  be  nearly  fifty  years 
ago  !  One  must  expect  a  good  many  changes  in  fifty 
years." 

"  Yes,  one  must." 


18  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

"  Though  you  " — with  a  smile — "  say  that  nothing 
has  happened  to  you  in  half  that  time." 

"  Did  I  say  so  ?  It  was  silly  of  me  ;  but  I  meant 
nothing  vital.1" 

"  Well,  I  suppose  I  must  be  going  now,  or  Euphemia 
will  be  getting  restive." 

"  Is  Euphemia  your  girl's  name  ?  " 

"  Yes — at  last  you  have  found  a  question  to  ask  ; 
you  know,  the  judge  is  Scotch — Euphemia  !  And  I 
would  not  have  it  shortened  into  Effie." 

"  No  !  " 

"  But  before  I  go  we  must  fix  upon  a  day  and  hour 
for  you  to  come  to  us — you  and  your  Harry.  Xo,  do 
not  be  afraid,  I  will  not  call  him  Harry  to  his  face  ; 
I  know  how  young  men  hate  to  be  Christian-named 
by  old  women  !  " 

Mrs.  Clarence  hesitates. 

"  It  is  very  kind  of  you,  but  I  am  afraid  I  cannot 
quite  answer  for  him." 

"  I  thought  you  said  that  he  was  coming  home  to- 
day?" 

"  Yes,  I  expect  him  ;  but — but  you  know  he  goes 
up  to  London  every  day  to  the  Temple." 

"  The  law  courts  do  not  sit  in  August." 

Thus  a  second  time  convicted  of  falsehood  and 
folly,  Mrs.  Clarence  remains  helplessly  silent,  and  her 
antagonist  pushes  her  advantage. 

"  He  is  sure  to  be  at  home  to-morrow  ?  " 

"I  do  not  know  ;  he  has  not  said  so." 

"  Let  us  say  to-morrow  on  the  chance;  we  lunch 
at  two,  and  the  carriage  shall  be  at  this  door  precisely 
at  1.30." 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  19 

But  despite  the  excessive  meekness  of  her  look,  it 
is  now  apparent  that  Mrs.  Clarence  is  capable  of  hold- 
ing her  own. 

"  It  is  most  kind  of  yon  to  be  in  such  a  hurry  to 
have  us,"  she  answers  courteously,  "  but  I  could  not 
possibly  answer  for  Harry.  If  you  will  allow  me,  I 
will  write." 

"  Wire — we  have  a  telegraph  and  telephone  in  the 
house  ;  trust  an  old  Indian  for  making  himself  com- 
fortable. But  do  let  it  be  '  yes.'  Well,  it  has  been 
pleasant  picking  up  the  old  threads." 

The  serene  and  civil  mask  of  Lady  Bramshill's 
friend's  face  gives  no  indication  of  how  slmdderingly 
repellant  to  her  is  the  occupation  alluded  to,  and  her 
sweet  enigmatic  parting  smile  may  mean  acquiescence 
as  well  as  gratitude. 


CHAPTER  II. 

LADY  BRAMSHILL  has  stepped,  heavy-footed,  but 
excited  and  kiss-blowing,  into  her  landau,  and  it  has 
rolled  away  with  her  and  Euphemia. 

"  If  you  had  stayed  five  minutes  longer,  I  should 
have  screamed,"  is  the  young  lady's  opening  remark. 

"  Was  I  so  long  ?  "  apologetically.  "  I  hope  3*011 
did  not  mind  waiting?" 

"Of  course  I  minded.  I  was  excessively  bored. 
But  was  it  she — was  it  your  old  friend  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  yes  ! " 

"I  thought  it  must  be  by  your  staying  so  long. 
But  I  am  surprised.  I  had  no  doubt  of  your  being 
shown  the  door." 

"  No  more  had  I — at  least,  not  much  ;  but  the 
moment  I  saw  her  I  knew  it  was  all  right.  I  should 
have  known  her  any  where  ;  I  told  her  so." 

"And  she  ?    Did  she  return  the  compliment  ?" 

"Well,  no,  I  cannot  say  that  she  did  ;  in  fact,  she 
did  not  know  me  from  Adam." 

"You  must  remember" — witli  a  rather  mischie- 
vous glance  at  her  parent's  outline — "  that  you 
always  tell  me  you  were  a  thin  girl." 

"  So  I  was  ;  and  then  the  name,  of  course,  was  no 
clew." 

"  Our  '  new  nobility  '  is  perhaps  a  little  misleading," 
replies  Euphemia,  laughing. 

20 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  21 

"  But   as  soon    as   I   mentioned   Green   Leigh,  or 
almost  as  soon,  she  recollected  me  at  once." 
"  And  fell  upon  your  neck  ?  " 

"  No  ;  she  never  was  a  very  demonstrative  person." 
"  But  she  was  delighted  to  see  you  ?  " 
"  Oh,  yes,  of  course — at  least," — as  if  the  idea  had 
struck  her  for  the  first  time — "now  that  I  come  to 
think  of  it,  was  she  ?    She  did  not  say  so  ;  but,  then, 
she  never  was  demonstrative.     She  has  worn  well  " — • 
returning  to  a  branch  of  the  subject  on  which  confi- 
dence is  easier  ;  "  a  wonderful  woman  !  such  a  pretty 
creature  still  !  " 
"  Pretty  at  fifty  ?  " 
"Not  fifty — forty-seven." 
"  Forty-seven,  fifty,  it  is  all  the  same." 
The  mother  does  not  waste  time  in  contesting  the 
fiat  of  cruel  and  magnificent  eighteen,  but  continues 
her  pa3an  of  praise. 

"  And  so  beautifully  turned  out  !  all  thrown  away 
upon  a  wretched  little  country  town  !  Why  she 
came  here  I  cannot  make  out  ;  and  she  herself  did 
not  seem  very  clear.  I  shall  never  rest  till  I  get  her 
out  of  it." 

"  I  suppose  she  knows  her  own  business  best," 
rejoins  Euphemia  shrewdly  ;  "  I  think,  if  I  were  }rou, 
I  would  leave  her  to  manage  it  ;  you  know  that 
people  are  not  always  quite  pleased  when  you  insist 
on  rearranging  their  lives  for  them." 

"I  do  not  know  what  you  mean,"  rejoins  Lady 
Bramshill,  with  a  warmth  which  shows  that  there  may 
be  some  basis  in  fact  for  the  accusation,  "  but  I 
shall  never  be  satisfied  till  I  get  them  out  of  this 


22  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

hole  !  "  with  a  contemptuous  glance  at  the  clean  but 
lifeless  street  through  which  they  are  rolling  country- 
ward. 

"  TJiem  f    I  thought  that  she  was  a  widow." 

"  So  she  is,  but  she  has  a  son." 

"  A  son  ?     What  is  he  like  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  see  him,  he  was  not  there  ;  but  he  is  to 
return  to-day,  and  I  begged  them  both  to  come  over 
at  once." 

"  And  what  day  are  they  coming  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know.  I  could  not  get  her  to  fix  any 
day  ;  she  made  rather  a  difficulty  about  him  :  could 
not  answer  for  him — that  sort  of  thing.  A  little 
absurd,  I  thought." 

"  Well,  you  know  you  would  not  dare  to  answer 
for  me,"  rejoins  the  young  lady,  laughing,  "  so  per- 
haps he  is  a  tyrant  of  the  same  stamp." 

"She  seemed  to  imply  that  he  was  a  monstrous  fine 
fellow,  and  if  he  takes  after  her,  he  may  be.  Well, 
I  have  no  doubt  we  shall  see  plenty  of  him  when  once 
we  meet.  I  wonder  " — with  a  laugh  of  ill-contained 
pride — "  whether  poor  dear  Lucy  was  afraid  of  my 
throwing  you  at  her  prodigy's  head  !  " 

"  Did  such  an  idea  cross  your  mind  ?  "  asks  the 
girl,  with  cool  interest.  "  But  no,  match-maker  as 
you  are,  the  scale  of  the  establishment  did  not 
promise  much  of  aparti,  and  '  us  nobility'  must  look 
high  ;  yet,"  as  her  mother  does  not  immediately 
answer,  "  you  are  romantic  enough  to  have  entertained 
the  thought  for  a  moment,  too,  though  I  do  you  the 
justice  to  believe  you  would  hasten  to  dismiss  it." 

Lady  Bramshill  shakes  her  head. 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  23 

"  Poor  dear  Lucy  !  No," — reflectively,  yet  very 
decidedly,  too, — "  she  may  indeed  make  her  mind 
easy  !  Not  for  even  one  second — not  even  in  joke — 
should  I  be  likely  to  contemplate  such  a  possibility, 
or,  rather,"  with  great  emphasis,  "  such  an  i?»possi- 
bility." 

"  Why  an  impossibility  ?  Did  their  grandfather, 
like  Sydney  Smith's,  disappear  about  the  time  of  the 
assizes  ?  Is  there  any  dark  spot  in  your  friend's 
history  !  " 

"  In  hers  9  Oh,  no  ;  she  was  always  a  perfect 
Sainte  Nitouche — a  little  angel,  who  was  only  held  to 
earth  \>\  the  one  thread  of  a  slight  weakness  for  her 
clothes." 

"  The  husband,  then  ?  Was  there  anything  wrong 
about  him?"  Lady  Bramshill  nods.  "He  drank?" 
No  answer.  "Your  silence  says,  Mike  a  fish,' 
though  I  always  think  that  that  expression  is  rather 
hard  upon  fish,  who  are  such  rigid  Blue-Ribbons." 

"He  was  a  harmless  sort  of  dull  man  in  his  normal 
state  ;  but  when  he  was — ill " 

"D.  T.,  of  course?" 

"  I  never  said  D.  T." — sharply.  "  He  used  to 
knock  her  about  cruelly.  I  have  seen  bruises  an  inch 
long  on  her  neck  and  arms  ;  and  once  he  cut  her 
forehead  open  with  a  medicine  bottle  ;  I  saw  the 
little  white  scar  under  her  hair  to-day." 

"  And  I  suppose  she  used  to  fly  for  refuge  to  the 
Vicarage — it  was  only  just  across  the  park,  was  it 
not  ? — to  you  and  my  grandfather  ?  " 

"  Not  she  !  She  never  breathed  a  word  upon  the 
subject  to  any  living  soul,  except  one  woman  servant, 


24  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

who  helped  her  to  nurse  him.  By  the  bye,  I  wonder 
has  she  that  woman,  that  Mrs.  Nasmyth,  still  ?  It 
was  a  perfect  marvel  how  she  managed  to  keep  people 
ignorant  of  what  really  ailed  him  ;  but  she  did, 
and  even  when  he  had  to  be  sent  away  from  home 
nobody  suspected  it.  People  thought  he  had  been 
ordered  to  Kissingen.  God  knows  how  she  managed 
it  ;  but  that  woman,  in  her  little  fragile  body,  has 
the  pluck  of  the  devil  !  " 

"  She  must  indeed  ! " — with  an  accent  of  sincere 
admiration — "  but  I  do  not  think  yon  ought  to  say 
'the  pluck  of  the  devil.'  It  is  not  ladylike." 

"  No,  I  suppose  I  ought  not,"  rejoins  the  mother 
dutifully.  "  Thank  you,  dear,  for  telling  me  ;  but, 
really,  when  I  think  of  what  a  hell  upon  earth  that 
poor  little  woman  must  have  borne  in  unflinching 
silence  and  endurance " 

"  If  she  kept  it  so  dark,  how  did  you  discover  it  ?  " 

"  It  oozed  out  after  his  death — after  she  had  left 
the  neighborhood.  By  the  bye,  I  expect  that  the 
knowledge  that  it  must  come  out  sooner  or  later  had 
a  good  deal  to  say  to  her  letting  the  place.  She 
naturally  thought  that  the  knowledge  of  such  a 
parentage  would  injure  the  boy." 

"  Why  on  earth  should  it  ?  How  grossly  unjust  if 
it  did  ?  "  cries  Euphemia,  with  a  generous  flush  of 
indignation  on  her  pink-velvet  face.  "  To  be  cold- 
shouldered  because  he  had  had  a  drunken  brute  for  a 
father — impossible  !  " 

"  I  never  mentioned  the  word  'drink,'  and  you  do 
not  know  what  you  are  talking  about,"  rejoins  Lady 
Bramshill,  with  more  brusqueness  than  she  is  wont  to 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  25 

employ  toward  her  daughter,  impelled  by  who 
knows  what  lurking  fear  aroused  by  this  hot  partisan- 
ship. "  The  poor  wretch  was  not  at  all  responsible. 
But  it  is  a  very  disagreeable  subject  ;  do  not  let  us 
dwell  upon  it." 

The  daughter  receives  this  request  in  silence, 
while  her  eyes  rest  thoughtfully  on  the  passing 
hedges,  dark  and  dusty  with  the  August  thirst,  for 
the  town  has  been  left  behind,  the  bridge  over  its 
slow  river  crossed,  and  backs  turned  upon  its  soaring 
spires  ;  but  that  her  mother's  injunctions  are  not 
invariably  binding  upon  her  is  proved  by  her  next 
remark : 

"  I  can  quite  see  why  Mrs.  Clarence  was  not  as 
glad  to  see  you  as  you  expected." 

"  I  never  said  that  she  was  not  glad  to  see  me  " — • 
hastily  interjected,  but  not  paid  much  attention  to. 

"  The  poor  woman  has  for  all  these  years  been  try- 
ing to  bury  that  hideous  past,  and,  of  course,  the 
first  sight  of  you  dug  it  all  up  again.  You  will  prob- 
ably find  that  she  has  flitted  early  to-morrow 
morning." 

"  I  do  not  know  why  you  should  say  that,"  re- 
plies Lady  Bramshill,  in  a  distinctly  wounded  voice. 
"  If  she  remembers  me  at  all — and  I  must  say  she 
did  seem  strangely  hazy  about  me — she — she  must 
know  that  I  am  the  last  person  in  the  world  to  peach 
upon  her  ;  that  I  would  bite  my  tongue  out  sooner 
than  not  keep  her  counsel.  My  one  thought  to-day, 
ever  since  I  first  saw  her  sitting  on  that  window-seat, 
looking  out  into  that  dead-alive  street,  was  how  I 
could  make  a  brighter  existence  for  her." 


26  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

"  I  would  not  try,  if  I  were  you." 

"  I  must  get  her  back  into  the  world — wake  her  up 
— make  her  feel  her  own  value." 

"  I  repeat  that,  if  I  were  you,  I  would  not  try. 
As  long  as  I  have  known  you  you  have  always  been 
t lying  to  make  chickens  swim  and  ducklings  fly,  and 
somehow  it  lias  never  quite  come  off." 

Could  the  eyes  of  the  interlocutors  traverse  the 
intervening  two  miles,  and  pierce  the  old  brick  of 
Mrs.  Clarence's  house- wall,  they  would  see,  to  the 
daughter's  triumph  and  the  mother's  discomfiture, 
that  the  surmises  of  the  former  had  been  more  cor- 
rect than  the  not  very  confident  hopes  of  the  latter. 
No  sooner  are  Lady  Bramshill  and  her  india-rubber- 
tired  landau  beyond  the  reach  of  parting  smiles  and 
out  of  the  range  of  hand-kissing,  than  the  object  of 
her  endearments  sinks  down  in  an  armchair,  and, 
knitting  together  her  small,  long  hands,  says  to  her- 
self over  and  over,  in  a  voice  of  unmistakable  dis- 
tress, "  How  unfortunate  !  Oh,  how  unfortunate  !  " 

But  after  a  while  her  thoughts  apparently  return  to 
the  pleasanter  channel  from  which  they  had  been 
diverted  by  her  unwelcome  visitor,  for  she  rises  and, 
slightly  shaking  her  head,  as  if  thereby  to  shake  out 
of  it  the  disagreeable  train  of  thought  awakened  by 
Lad}r  Bramliill's  visit,  she  walks  with,  for  her,  an  alert 
step — her  movements  are  always  soft  and  slow — 
back  to  the  window-seat,  and  renews  her  watch 
down  the  street. 

To  the  naked  eye  there  is  not  much  to  look  at  in 
it,  in  its  slumbrous  afternoon  quiet,  half  shade,  half 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  27 

August  fire,  deserted  even  by  such  gayety  as  the  vio- 
lent butcher  boys  and  gentler  greengrocers  lend  to  its 
morning  hours.  It  is  chiefly  composed  of  dwelling 
houses  of  the  smaller  gentry  type — houses  behind 
•whose  Liberty  muslin  blinds  ancient  gentlewomen, 
fragments  of  considerable  families,  are  sitting,  and 
solicitors  and  doctors  are  rearing  their  sprightly 
broods.  The  pavement  is  not  actually  grass-grown, 
but  the  sparrows  have  seldom  to  remove  from  its 
mid-cobbles — it  is  still  paved  with  cobble-stones — in 
order  to  make  way  for  a  passing  vehicle.  It  is,  in 
fact,  not  a  thoroughfare,  but  a  most  sleepy  cul-de-sac. 
And  yet,  were  it  Piccadilly,  the  watcher's  eyes  could 
not  be  fixed  with  a  more  expectant  eagerness  upon  its 
silent  length,  especially  upon  that  end  of  it  which 
communicates  with  the  outer  world. 

Round  that  corner  Harry  will  return  from  his  first 
circuit.  Rare  indeed  have  been  the  occasions  during 
his  twenty-eight  years  of  life  when  his  mother  has 
not  herself  opened  the  door  to  him  on  any  return 
after  absence,  and  acute  has  ever  been  her  vexation 
when  either  illness,  or  the  presence  of  any  of  her 
few  visitors,  or  a  change  in  her  son's  arrangements, 
lias  hindered  her  from  being  the  first  object  on  which 
his  eyes  fall  on  the  threshold  of  his  home.  And  if 
now,  on  this  great  epoch-making  day,  the  return  from 
this  inauguration,  as  it  were,  of  his  career,  he  were 
to  be  admitted  by  a  stupid  parlor  maid,  who  would 
see  no  special  meaning  in  this  return,  what  good  would 
her  life  do  her  ? 

It  is  this  fear  which  has  added  a  sting  to  the  thorn 
of  Ladv  Bramshill's  reminiscences — the  fear  lest  the 


28  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

wheels  of  his  hansom  should  be  heard  raising  the 
echoes  of  St.  Gratian  while  her  old  acquaintance  is 
still  keeping  her  on  the  gridiron  of  her  recollections, 
and  the  alarmingly  handsome  young  giantess-daughter 
is  still  leaning  back  under  her  gay  parasol  in  the  car- 
riage outside. 

But,  thank  Heaven  !  both  are  gone  in  plenty  of 
time  ;  for  Mrs.  Clarence  has  been  upon  her  watch- 
tower  the  best  part  of  an  hour,  and  that  chronic  fear 
of  accidents  under  which  all  overmuch-loving  persons 
are  wont  to  suffer  is  beginning  to  beset  her,  when 
her  spirits  are  sent  up  with  a  run  by  the  sight  of  a 
gray  horse,  two  big  wheels,  and  a  hansom-hooded 
form  turning  the  expected  angle. 

To  see  her  on  the  doorstep  evidently  causes  her  son 
no  surprise,  nor  is  there  much  overt  emotion  on  either 
side  in  their  salutations. 

"  Well,  mother  ?  " 

"  Well,  dear  ?  " 

But  after  he  has  paid  his  cab,  and  followed  her  up 
the  little  old  stairs  to  the  shaded  drawing  room,  she 
gives  a  long,  low  sigh  of  perfect  satisfaction,  and 
lays  one  gentle  kiss — more  might  tease  him — upon  his 
stooped  face. 

He  returns  her  caress  fondly,  asking,  in  a  voice 
that  sounds  inspiritingly  cheerful  and  manly  in  the 
unmanly  room  : 

"  Well,  how  have  you  been  getting  on  ?  Not  too 
dull?" 

"Not  dull  at  all.  You  know  I  like  dullness  ;  I  am 
dull  myself." 

"  I  know  you  are  " — with  an  intonation  that  takes 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  29 

all  sting  out  of  the  acquiescence — "  at  least,  I  ought 
to  know  it,  for  you  have  been  telling  me  so  for  the 
last  quarter  of  a  century." 

"  And  you  ?  "  in  a  tone  of  suppressed  excitement. 

"  What  about  me  ?  " 

"  Did  yon — did  you  get  on  all  right  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  so  ;  as  well  as  such  a  tender  fledgling 
could  expect." 

"You  enjoyed  yourself?" 

"  Extremely.  I  had  a  capital  time.  They  are  a 
very  pleasant  set  of  men  on  the  Oxford  Circuit.  We 
had  a  most  amusing  mess." 

«  Yes  ?  " 

"  Hodgins — you  have  heard  of  him  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  think  so  " — reluctantly. 

"  Ol),  yes,  you  must ;  only  you  have  forgotten.  He 
is  a  very  coming  man.  He  will  probably  take  silk 
next  year." 

«  Will  he  ?  " 

If  there  is  any  latent  ignorance  in  Mrs.  Clarence's 
mind  of  what  soaring  height  of  exaltation  "  taking 
silk"  may  mean,  she  is  careful  to  give  no  indication 
of  it. 

"  He  is  famous  for  his  good  stories.  Many  of  them 
are  too  professional,  too  technical,  for  you  to  appre- 
ciate ;  but  I  must  tell  you  one  or  two  that  require  no 
legal  knowledge,  and  which  I  think  will  amuse  you." 

"I  am  sure  they  will." 

"  His  bon-mots  are  renowned  at  the  bar." 

"Are  they?  I  suppose  " — with  great  delicacy  of 
hesitation — "  that  you  did  not  get  a  brief  ?  It  would 
have  been  most  unlikely  on  your  first  circuit.  I  did 


30  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

not" — in  hasty  fear  of  the  slightest  implication  of 
disappointment — "  I  did  not  in  the  least  expect  it." 

She  is  looking  with  veiled  eagerness  in  her  son's  face 
as  she  makes  the  disclaimer,  and  her  spirits  begin  to 
flutter  as  she  sees  a  smile  dawning  in  his  sea-blue  eyes. 

"  Then  you  will  be  rather  annoyed — one  is  always 
annoyed  when  one's  previsions  are  falsified,"  he  says, 
with  a  teasing  slowness,  in  amused  relish  of  her 
eager  hanging  on  his  utterance — "that  I  did  get  one. 
It  was  only  by  a  fluke,  I  confess,  and  it  was  only  one  ; 
but  it  was  enough  to  take  away  my  reproach  among 
barristers." 

"You  did  get  one?"  with  a  rapturous  smile. 
"  Oh,  I  am  glad  !  " 

"It  was  one  of  poor  Hodgins'.  It  is  an  ill  wind 
that  blows  nobody  good.  He  was  laid  up  with  the 
gout  at  Oxford,  and  had  to  throw  it  up." 

"  Yes  ?  " 

"And  so  he  gave  it  to  me.  lie  said — he  is  always 
so  full  of  his  jokes " 

"Even  when  he  has  the  gout?"  with  a  playful 
smile. 

"  Yes,  even  when  he  has  the  gout.  He  said, 
'  Which  of  you  fellows  looks  the  hungriest  ?  ' ' 

"  I  am  sure  " — indignantly — "  that  you  do  not  look 
in  the  least  hungry." 

"I  suppose  he  thought  I  did,  for  he  gave  it  to  me." 

"  And  was  it — was  it  a  good  case — an  interesting 
one  ?  " 

"It  was" — laughing — "an  old  woman,  who 
brought  an  action  against  a  tram  company  for 
knocking  her  down." 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  31 

"  Oh  ?  "  with  a  faintly  disappointed  intonation. 

"  She  was  not  much  hurt ;  but  she  was  extremely 
angry,  and  determined  to  have  very  big  compensa- 
tion." 

"And  you  got  it  for  her?  You  won  it?"  her 
words  tripping  over  each  other  in  the  eagerness  of 
her  inquiry. 

"  Yes,  I  won  it ;  she  got  compensation  and  costs." 

"  Oh,  I  am  pleased  !  " 

"  So  was  she." 

"  I  should  have  liked  to  have  seen  your  first  brief. 
I  suppose — do  not  laugh  at  me  ;  no  doubt  I  am  say- 
ing something  very  stupid — 1  uppose  you  have  not 
kept  it  ?  I  see  by  your  laughing  that  I  am  suggest- 
ing something  impossibly  silly." 

"  I  am  afraid  that,  as  a  rule,  barristers  do  not  lay 
up  their  briefs  in  lavender.  They  are  not  very 
interesting-looking  documents  ;  but  I  might  get  you 
a  copy  of  mine." 

"  I  should  be  very  much  obliged  indeed  to  you  if 
you  would." 

"  When  I  am  seated  on  the  Woolsack,  it  will  no 
doubt  gain  a  market  value,"  rejoins  he,  with  a  friendly 
jeer,  walking  as  he  speaks  to  the  bow  window, 
whence — the  sun  having  for  the  day  withdrawn  his 
too  potent  smile — the  Venetians  have  been  drawn  up. 
"Has  one  wheelbarrow  passed  up  this  gay  thorough- 
fare since  I  left  ?  "  he  asks,  leaning  out.  "  It  is  dead- 
alive,  witli  a  vengeance  !  " 

She  has  joined  him,  and  now  stands  with  her  hand 
on  his  shoulder.  The  identit}"  of  the  epithet  with 
that  which  her  new  acquaintance  and  old  friend  had 


32  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

applied  to  her  chosen  home  striking  her.  slie  repeats  : 

"  Dead-alive  !  It  must  be  so,  really,  for  you  are 
the  second  person  who  has  called  it  so  this  after- 
noon." 

"  Who  was  the  first  ?  " 

"  Lady  Bramshill." 

"Lady  Bramshill!"  withdrawing  his  head  from 
the  outer  air  and  speaking  with  a  slightly  aroused 
interest.  "  What  Lady  Bramshill  ?  Any  relation  to 
the  Indian  judge  who  was  belorded  at  the  last  batch 
of  promotions?  " 

"  Only  wife." 

"  And  what  made  her  rush  into  your  acquaintance  ? 
Since  you  know  no  one  here,  how  did  she  dig  you 
out?" 

"  I  knew  her  a  great  many  years  ago,"  replies  Mrs. 
Clarence,  with  a  sort  of  reluctance,  though  she  her- 
self had  introduced  the  subject.  "  She  was  the 
daughter  of  the  clergyman  at  Green  Leigh.  I  did 
not  know  her  under  her  married  name  ;  and  she  is  so 
changed  past  all  recognition  that  I  should  not  have 
guessed  her,  even  if  she  had  kept  her  old  one. 
People  " — pensively  putting  her  head  on  one  side — 
"  ought  not  to  be  hurt  with  one  for  not  knowing 
them  again,  when  the}7  have  lost  all  trace  of  likeness 
to  their  former  selves." 

"  Was  she  hurt  ?  " 

"I  am  afraid  so.  She  said  pointedly  that  she 
should  have  known  me  anywhere,  and  that  I  was  not 
in  the  least  altered.  That,  of  course,  was  nonsense." 

"  It  is  the  best  piece  of  sense  I  have  yet  heard  of 
her.  You  are  not  in  the  least  altered  since  first  I 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ?  33 

knew  you,  and  that  is  some  little  time  ago,"  replies 
he,  with  a  stoutness  which  proves  that,  whatever 
may  be  the  intrinsic  value  of  the  opinion,  he  is  ready 
to  go  to  the  stake  for  it.  She  throws  a  glance  of 
fond  and  happy  incredulity  at  him. 

"  Lady  Bramshill  brought  her  daughter  with  her." 

"  Her  daughter  !     Whew-w  !  " 

Perhaps  the  sort  of  whistle  with  which  Harry 
Clarence  concludes  is  due  to  some  reminiscence  that 
the  possession  of  daughters  is  not  apt  to  endear 
acquaintances  to  his  parent. 

"  Yes  ;  a  very  handsome  daughter,  so  her  mother 
says." 

"And  do  you  say  so,  too?"  with  a  carefulness 
that  might  have  amused  a  stranger,  to  throw  no 
eagerness  into  the  inquiry. 

"  I  can  scarcely  judge.  She  did  not  come  in  ;  she 
sat  in  the  carriage  outside,  the  whole  time.  I  could 
only  see  the  top  of  her  hat  and  a  tiny  bit  of  one 
cheek." 

"  So  you  keep  your  opinion  in  reserve,  eh  ?" 

"  I  do  not  think  she  was  quite  your  style  " — with  a 
slight  quickening  of  her  slow,  soft  voice.  "She  is 
one  of  those  endlessly  long  girls,  taller  than  most  men  ; 
and  I  know  you  do  not  admire  giantesses." 

"I  detest  them,"  replies  he  reassuringly.  "The 
one  thing  that  I  could  never  forgive  in  a  woman  would 
be  looking  over  my  head.  No,"  with  a  laughing,  yet 
tender  look  at  his  mother's  small  stature,  "give  me 
a  little  woman,  just  as  high  as  my  heart." 


CHAPTER  III. 

IT  is  the  morning  of  the  third  day  after  Harry 
Clarence's  return.  Lady  Brarashill  is  sitting  at  her 
writing  table,  with  the  materials  for  a  letter  spread 
out  before  her,  as  she  holds  a  suspended  pen,  with  her 
eyes  fondly  resting  on  the  neat  new  gilt  coronet  that 
has  lately  flowered  out  upon  her  stationery. 

Her  daughter  is  sitting  near  her  on  the  arm  of  a 
sofa,  with  her  legs,  not  dangling — there  are  few 
elevations  from  which  Euphemia  Bramshill's  legs 
could  dangle — but  stretched  out  before  her  along  the 
carpet. 

"  I  am  writing  a  line  to  Lucy  Clarence  to  say  that 
I  shall  send  the  carriage  for  them  to-morrow — for  her 
and  her  son.  It  must  be  the  landau,  because  there  is 
a  cousin  corning  to  stay  with  them  ;  we  must  have 
the  cousin,  too.  I  am  sure  that  must  have  been 
Harry  Clarence,  the  tall  man  I  told  you  I  saw  yester- 
day in  the  post  office.  Of  course  he  will  be  onty  too 
glad  to  come ;  what  can  he  have  to  do  in  St  Gra- 
tian?  Though  she  cannot  answer  for  him,  7" can  !  " 
laughing.  "  But  people  say  that  kind  of  thing  pour 
se  fa  ire  valoir  !  " 

"I  wish  you  would  not  use  quite  so  many  French 
phrases,"  says  Euphemia,  in  a  key  less  of  intentional 
disrespect  than  of  dispassionate  criticism.  "  Your 
accent  is  not  very  good." 

34 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  35 

"I  have  not  had  such  advantages  as  you,"  replies 
her  mother,  without  the  least  acrimony  ;  "  it  is  a  silly 
trick,  but  they  sometimes  convey  nicer  shades  of 
meaning  than  we  can  hit  off." 

"My  DEAR  LUCY"  (writing)  : 

"I  really  cannot  call  her  anything  but  Lucy.  I 
hope  she  will  not  mind.  She  certainly  cannot  have 
any  very  pleasant  associations  with  the  name  of 
Clarence,  and  we  were  always  Lucy  and  Marion  in 
old  days." 

"'My  dear  Lucy,'"  says  Euphemia,  in  laughing 
anticipatory  parody  of  her  mother's  rather  slowly- 
coming  composition.  " '  The  carriage  shall  be  at  your 
door  at  one  o'clock  to-morrow  to  convey  reluctant 
you  and  your  still-more-unwilling  prodigy  to  my 
house  to  be  introduced  to  my  large  and  noisy  family, 
whose  acquaintance  you  have  not  the  smallest  desire 
to  make.'  I  always  think  of  you,  mother,  when  I 
read  the  parable  of  the  man  who  compelled  people  to 
come  in  that  his  house  might  be  filled." 

"Euphemia  !  "  cries  a  vigorous  young  voice,  which, 
with  its  owner,  now  enters  the  room  with  something 
of  a  burst,  "here  is  a  parcel  for  you,  and  I  am  sure 
by  the  shape  it  is  your  new  cleik.  Are  not  yon 
ready  yet?  You  said  you  would  come  golfing  at 
eleven,  and  it  is  now  half-past.  We  are  all  waiting 
for  you." 

"  I  am  engaged,"  replies  Euphemia  rather  loftily. 
"  I  will  come  presently  ;  and  meanwhile,  my  dear 
boy,  I  must  beg  3rou  to  enter  a  room  more  gently.  It 


36  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

is  not  usual  to  storm  into  a  lady's  boudoir  like  a 
blizzard." 

From  her  sofa-arm  she  waves  him  superbly  away, 
and,  though  he  is  a  full-grown  youth,  even  a  little  her 
senior,  he  goes  like  a  lamb,  closing  the  door  with  the 
nicest  precaution  behind  him. 

Perhaps  his  docility  mollifies  the  young  autocrat, 
for  she  present!}'  rises,  as  if  to  follow  her  brother, 
firing  one  parting  shot  at  her  parent,  who  has  at 
length  got  under  way  with  her  note,  which  the 
daughter  reads  over  her  shoulder  : 

"'Send  the  carriage!'  You  may  send  the  car- 
riage, but  I  would  wager  a  good  deal  that  it  returns 
empty." 

•  *  •  •  • 

"You  have  not  heard  any  bad  news?"  asks  Clar- 
ence, as  he  enters  his  mother's  drawing  room  at 
luncheon-time,  and  finds  her  sitting  with  an  open 
note  on  her  lap,  and  her  smooth  head — she  has  had 
but  one  style  of  hair-dressing  all  her  life  :  parting, 
thick  silky  sweep  from  the  face,  and  large,  low  Greek 
knot — a  good  deal  on  one  side.  Long  experience  has 
taught  him  that  to  carry  her  head  on  one  side  is  a 
sure  signal  of  mental  distress  on  his  mother's  part. 
At  his  approach  it  grows  straight  again. 

"Any  bad  news,  dear?  No  ;  why  do  you  think  I 
have  had  bad  news  ?" 

"  You  looked  so  woe-begone." 

"  Did  I?    I  was  only  thinking." 

"Thinking  of  what?" 

"Of  this,"  taking  up  the  note  and  holding  it  out  to 
him.  "  Lady  Bramshill  has  just  sent  it  over  by  a 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  37 

man  on  horseback.     I  cannot  see,"  pensively,  "that 
there  was  any  such  very  great  hurry  about  it." 

The  young  man  looks  at  sea  for  a  moment,  repeat- 
ing "  Lady  Bramshill?"  interrogatively  ;  and,  indeed, 
that  lady's  name  has  not  been  mentioned  between 
them  since  the  little  conversation  about  her  that  had 
followed  his  arrival ;  but  he  takes  the  note  and  reads  : 

"  '  MY  DEAE  LUCY  : '  " 

"  Oh,  I  understand  !  it  is  your  old  friend  ;  so  you 
are  on  '  Lucy '  terms  !  "  slightly  raising  his  eye- 
brows. 

"'Now  that  we  have  found  each  other  again,  we 
must  not  let  one  another  slip,  but  must  make  up  for 
lost  time.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  delightful  it  was  to 
me  3resterday  to  reknit  the  dear  old  tie  and  take  up 
the  long-dropped  threads.' 

"This  good  lady  seems  very  fond  of  you." 

Mrs.  Clarence's  head  has,  during  the  reading  aloud 

of  these  sentences,  been  again  declining  considerably 

from  the  perpendicular,  and  she  now  ejaculates  in  a 

small  and  distressed  voice  : 

"  Yes,  she  was  so  much  gladder  to  see  me  than  I 

was  to  see  her.     Isn't  it  dreadful  ?  " 

" '  Now,  we  must  take  time  by  the  forelock,  and  as 
a  first  step  I  shall,  if  I  do  not  hear  from  you  to  the 
contrary,  or,  indeed,  even  if  I  do,  send  the  carriage  to 
bring  you  and  your  Harry — tell  him  that  I  am  almost 


38  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

sure  I  met  him  in  the  post  office  yesterday — and  the 
girl  cousin  who,  as  you  told  me,  is  about  to  visit  you, 
to  luncheon,  and  spend  a  long  day  with  us.  I  decline 
to  take  a  "  No." 

"'Your  truly  attached  old  chum, 

" '  MARION  BRAMSHILL.'  " 

"Well,  and  what  have  you  said  to  'your  truly 
attached  old  chum  '  ?  That  you  are  sorry  to  tell  her 
you  are  not  nearly  so  much  attached  as  she  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  answered  yet.    I  waited  to  consult  you." 

There  is  a  little  pause.  He  has  sat  down  on  a 
stool  at  her  feet,  and  laid  her  letter  back  upon  her 
knee.  Then  he  speaks,  rather  hesitatingly,  a  sug- 
gestion that  seems  to  be  feeling  its  way  doubtfully  : 

"You  do  not  think  that  it  would  be  a  good  thing  if 
you  came  out  of  your  shell  a  little  bit — just  a  very, 
very  little  ?  " 

"  I  should  be  as  uncomfortable  as  any  other  limpet 
or  scallop  or  poor  shelled  beast.  But  that  is  no 
reason,  dear," — speaking  with  a  little  eager  hurry, — 
"  why  you  should  be  cooped  up  with  me  ;  why  you 
and  Abigail  should  not  accept  the  invitation.  Lady 
Bramshill  means  very  kindly," — glancing  remorse- 
fully at  the  affectionate  expressions  which  crowd  her 
correspondent's  page, — "and  I  dare  say  it  is  a  pleasant 
house — full  of  cheerful  young  people.  They  are 
a  large  family  ;  I  do  not  know  how  many  boys,  and 
that  one  immensely  tall  girl — a  very  handsome  girl, 
too  !  "  she  adds,  afraid  of  there  having  been  an  un- 
generous harping  on  what  she  knows  to  be  in  her 
son's  eyes  a  disability  in  her  speech. 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  39 

" '  If  she  be  not  fair  for  me,  what  care  I  how  fail- 
she  be  ? '  And  you  know  I  hate  tall  girls,"  replies 
he  lightly.  "  As  far  as  I  am  concerned,  you  have 
your  answer  pat,  for  I  shall  not  be  here.  I  forgot  to 
tell  you  that  I  must  be  off  to-morrow — only  for  a 
couple  of  nights  !  "  seeing  her  efforts  to  conceal  the 
fall  in  her  barometer. 

She  has  made  it  a  lifelong  rule  not  to  question 
him  as  to  his  outgoings  and  incomings,  and  she  now 
only  says  cheerfully  : 

"  I  hope  it  is  something  pleasant." 

"  I  do  not  know.  It  is  a  terra  incognita  to  me. 
I  am  going  down  to  Eastshire." 

"  To  stay  with  people  ?  " 

"  To  stay  with  a  person." 

"  A  new  friend  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  can  hardly  call  Mrs.  Bevis  a  friend  yet^ 
though  I  think  she  has  the  makings  of  one." 

He  pauses,  and  she  waits  patiently,  without  more 
questioning,  for  what  enlargement  on  his  announce- 
ment he  may  feel  disposed  to  make. 

"  I  met  her  first  at  one  of  those  People's  Concerts 
I  went  to  sing  at  in  the  East  End.  She  does  some 
work  there  in  connection  with  Toynbee  Hall, — I  think 
she  has  a  good  many  irons  in  the  fire,  and  that  is  one 
of  them, — and  we  rather  fraternized.  We  happened 
to  meet  again  several  times,  and  now  she  has  asked 
me  down  to  this  little  place  she  has  in  Eastshire. 
She  describes  it  as  a  mere  cottage.  If  you  ask  me," 
with  a  smile,  "  I  am  afraid  it  is  not  altogether  admir- 
ation of  my  beaux  yeux  that  dictated  the  invitation, 
but  that  she  wants  to  consult  me  on  a  point  of  law 


40  SCYLLA  OR  CIIARYBDIS  ? 

as  to  a  bit  of  land  on  which  she  is  anxious  to  build  a 
recreation  room  for  her  village." 

Nothing  can  be  plainer,  opener,  or  less  marked  by 
the  smallest  tinge  of  embarrassment  than  this  direct 
and  simple  relation,  and  Mrs.  Clarence  makes  shift  to 
receive  it  with  an  answering  smile,  but  in  her  heart 
there  is  misliking  of  a  project  which  is  to  house  her 
son  in  a  cottage  in  tete-d-tete  with  an — evidently  by 
her  invitation — enterprising  female  stranger.  It 
occurs  to  her  to  say,  in  as  degage  a  manner  as  she 
can  master,  "  I  should  have  thought  that  she  would 
have  had  a  lawyer  of  her  own,"  but  she  crushes  the 
impulse  as  imptying  a  slight  doubt  of  the  propriety 
of  the  course  adopted,  and  substitutes  the  innocent- 
looking  remark  : 

"  Mrs.  Bevis  !  I  do  not  remember  her  name.  Is 
she  a  widow  ?  " 

"I  imagine  so.     I  never  heard  of  a  Mr.  Bevis." 

"  Young  or  old  ?  " 

"  I  never  know  what  age  people  are  ;  but  I  do 
happen  to  know  hers,  for  she  mentioned  last  time  I  saw 
her — apropos  of  I  forgot  what — that  she  was  forty." 

A  slight  but  insufficient  breeze  of  relief  blows  in 
upon  Mrs.  Clarence's  soul. 

Forty  !  and  Harry  is  twenty-eight  ;  but,  then,  it 
is  the  mode  of  the  day  to  marry  your  grandmother. 
She  probes  diffidently  further  : 

"  Nice-looking  ?  What  does  she  look  like  ?  I 
always" — apologetically — "wish  to  draw  a  picture 
to  myself  of  your  friends." 

"  Oh,  she  looks  all  right  !  I  do  not  think  either 
she  or  I  trouble  ourselves  much  about  her  looks." 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  41 

The  expression  of  indifference  as  to  his  hostess' 
charms  is  obviously  sincere  ;  and  into  the  self-tor- 
menting spirit  of  the  mother  there  flows  a  (this  time) 
full  and  ample  stream  of  balm.  Even  to  her  igno- 
rance of  the  world  and  of  man  it  is  patent  that  her 
Harry  may  be  safely  trusted  even  in  a  tete-d-tete  in  a 
thatched  cottage  with  a  lady  whose  beauties  he  can 
epitomize  in  the  cool  phrase,  "  Oh,  she  looks  all 
right !  " 

It  is  therefore  with  unforced  cheerfulness,  and 
many  injunctions  not  to  hurry  back  on  her  account, 
that  she  smiles  good-by  to  him  from  the  doorstep. 
Anything  sad  or  serious  is  further  banished  from  her 
adieus  by  the  fact  that  at  the  last  moment  but  one  the 
traveler's  hatbox  is  missing,  and  in  the  little  scuffle 
of  finding  it  all  other  feelings  are  lost.  She  has  never 
seen  him  leave  her  with  less  anxiety  or  foreboding, 
and  yet 

Eastshire  is  a  good  distance  from  London,  and 
August  is  not  the  picked  month  among  months  for 
pleasant  traveling,  particularly  in  the  direction  of  the 
sea,  near  which  the  goal  of  Clarence's  journey  lies. 

It  is  well  on  in  the  afternoon,  after  a  four-mile 
drive  in  a  fly — Mrs.  Bevis  has  not  sent  to  meet  him  ; 
but,  since  he  had  not  mentioned  his  train,  he  cannot 
blame  her  for  the  omission — that  he  finds  himself  at 
the  door  of  her  cottage.  Since  it  is  low,  stands 
sociably  close  to  the  road,  and  has  a  deep-eaved  roof, 
it  may  fairly  be  called  so. 

He  is  admitted  by  a  very  pretty  parlor  maid,  in  a 
Boulogne  fish-wife's  pleated  cap,  though  her  tongue 
betrays  no  Gallic  tinge,  and  in  whose  whole  air, 


42  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

though  of  accomplished  politeness,  he  traces  alight 
evidences  of  hurry  and  preoccupation.  They  are 
explained  when  he  inquires  for  his  hostess. 

"  She  is  in  the  harvest  field,  sir,"  with  a  faint  sound 
of  well-governed  surprise  at  such  a  question  being 
needful.  "  The  cart,  with  the  tea,  is  just  going  up 
there  ;  perhaps  you  would  like  to  go  up  in  it  ?  " 

The  37oung  man  hesitates.  He  would  prefer  a  walk 
after  his  long  sitting  ;  but,  reflecting  that  he  does  not 
know  the  way  or  the  distance,  he  gratefully  accepts 
the  proposition,  and  in  a  few  minutes,  in  company 
with  the  parlor  maid  and  a  large  tea-basket,  is  trotting 
leisurely  along  a  white  highroad  behind  a  good- 
natured  pony,  evidently  an  old  friend  of  the  family. 

By  and  by  they  leave  the  road,  and  with  a  slower 
progress,  along  a  cart-track,  up  gentle  uplands — 
Eastshire  is  a  flat  country — reach  the  scene  of  Mrs. 
Bevis'  labors. 

It  is  a  large  field  of  near  sixty  acres,  and  at  first  he 
does  not  see  her.  He  only  sees  a  wide  stretch  of 
rural  pleasantness — commonplace,  and  yet  delect- 
able— overvaulted  by  a  great  faint  sky  arch,  the 
settled  fairness  of  whose  pallid  blue  is  only  empha- 
sized by  the  evidently  idle  and  empty  little  frivolous 
cloudlets  here  and  there  asleep  on  its  still  expanse. 

In  mid-field  is  the  quickly  rising  stack,  the  large 
area  of  bared  stubble  around  it  evidencing  that  the 
barlej7  is  half  carried.  Beside  the  stack  stands  an 
unloading  wagon  ;  another,  far  down  the  field  by  the 
fast-vanishing  sheaves,  being  loaded  ;  two  more 
going  and  coming,  empty  and  full. 

But,  as  far  as  he  can  see,  no  Mrs.  Bevis  !     Per- 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  43 

haps  she  has  sought  the  shelter  of  the  stack  from  the 
sun,  which,  though  beginning  to  lower,  is  still  forcible. 
He  shall  find  her  there  with  book  and  work,  though 
no  expanded  parasol  hints  at  her  presence.  She 
must  be  on  the  farther  side. 

He  approaches  the  stack,  on  which  the  men  are 
singing  cheerfully,  and  chaffing  each  other  as  their 
edifice  rises  rapidly.  He  has  reached  the  scaffolding 
from  which  the  men  are  pitching.  They  are  too 
busy  to  afford  him  any  notice  ;  but  a  little  chubby 
boy,  astride  on  a  cart  horse,  whose  shoulders  his  short 
legs  fail  to  reach,  stares  stolidly  at  him.  Still  no 
Mrs.  Bevis. 

He  was  standing  irresolute,  looking  vaguely  in  the 
direction  of  an  'advancing  loaded  wain,  when  in  the 
stalwart  female  figure  at  the  head  of  the  leader  he 
recognizes  something  of  a  likeness  to  his  hostess. 

o  c? 

He  had  never  seen  Mrs.  Bevis  in  a  weather-beaten 
straw  hat,  with  ears  of  barley  sticking  in  it,  nor  heard 
her  calling  in  tones  of  Stentor  admonishment  to  a 
team  of  cart  horses  "  Peggy  !  "  "  Polly  !  "and  }Tet  the 
idea  strikes  him  that  it  must  be  she. 

We  are  all,  and  women  especially,  mortifyingly 
dependent  for  our  identity  upon  our  clothes,  and  he  is 
so  little  sure  of  Mrs.  Bevis'  that  he  is  afraid  of  seem- 
ing to  hurry  too  openly  to  meet  one  who  may  turn 
out,  after  all,  to  be  a  perfect  stranger.  His  doubts 
vanish  as  he  nears  her,  and  she  stops  her  team  to 
greet  him. 

"  You  are  energetic  !  "  he  says,  with  a  glance  of 
kindly  amusement  at  her  sunburnt  face  and  the  big 
cart  whip  in  her  hand.  "But  isn't  it  rather  a  severe 


44  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

game  in  tins  weather,  to  play  at  being  your  own 
wagoner  ?  " 

"  Play  /"  repeats  she,  with  an  accent  of  surprise 
less  disguised  than  had  been  that  of  the  pretty  par- 
lor maid  :  "  there  is  not  much  play  about  it.  I 
always  lead  every  day  through  the  harvest.  They  " 
— with  a  glance  at  the  harvestmen — "  would  think 
the  world  was  coming  to  an  end  if  I  did  not." 

"And  am  I  to  Mead,' too?" 

"  Not  to-day  ;  you  may  have  a  holiday  to-day. 
You  are  much  too  finely  dressed.  To-morrow  you 
shall  put  on  your  old  clothes — I  hope  you  have 
brought  some  old  clothes — and  we  will  set  you  to 
work.  You  do  not  mind  work,  do  you  ?  " 

But  he  does  not  answer.  It  is  not  because  he 
could  not  give  a  satisfactoiy  response,  but  because 
not  one  of  his  senses  is  any  longer  at  the  service  of 
the  lady  who  is  addressing  him.  They  have  all 
gone  out  of  him  for  the  moment  to  meet  another. 

The  dialogue  is  being  carried  on  at  a  couple  of 
hundred  yards  from  the  center  of  interest,  the  stack, 
and  the  faces  of  both  speakers  are  turned  toward  it. 

A  wagon,  which  has  just  finished  unloading,  is  set- 
ting off  on  its  light  and  empt}7  return  journey  to  the 
sheaves.  Beside  it  walks  a  female  figure — walks,  that 
is,  for  a  step  or  two  beside  her  horses,  and  when 
they  are  well  in  motion  reaches  a  hand  up  to  the 
wagon-tilt,  and  leaps  lightly  on  to  the  shaft,  thence 
gracefully  swings  herself  up  erect,  and  stands  slight 
and  straight,  supporting  herself  by  the  tilt.  It  is 
obvious  that  she  is  perfectly  at  home  and  at  ease 
there,  for  she  cracks  her  whip,  and  away  the  heavy 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  45 

horses  go  in  a  lumbering  trot,  that  as  they  pass  the 
stationary  wagon  breaks  into  a  gallop. 

As  she  passes  theui  the  young  charioteer  flings 
down  a  grave  smile,  and  upon  that  smile  it  seems  to 
Harry  afterward  that  she  had  galloped — cart  horses, 
wagon,  and  all — straight  into  his  heart.  He  looks, 
as  on  after-reflection  he  concludes  he  must  have 
done,  so  overcome  and  bewildered  that  his  hostess 
laughs. 

"  She  is  wonderfully  active,  isn't  she  ?  I  always 
tell  her  that  she  would  have  made  her  fortune  in  a 
circus." 

Then,  as  his  eyes  eagerly  ask  the  question  which 
his  lips  do  not  frame  :  "You  have  never  met  Honor 
before  ?  I  thought  you  might  in  London  ;  not  that 
she  is  much  to  be  met  anywhere.  Her  name  is 
Honor  Lisle,  and  it  is  a  fixed  law  that  she  always 
comes  to  help  me  with  the  harvest,  and  sings  senti- 
mental songs  at  the  *  frolic  '  afterward." 

"  The  '  frolic '  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  we  have  a  harvest  supper.  They  call  it  the 
'  frolic '  down  here." 

He  asks  no  more  questions,  but  his  eyes  follow  the 
little  slender  figure  holding  itself  so  upright,  and  yet 
adapting  itself  so  nicely  to  the  sways  and  jolts  of  its 
uneven  course  over  the  stubble.  It  would  be  impos- 
sible to  conceive  a  more  incongruous  or  absurd  idea 
than  that  of  his  mother  standing  on  the  tilt  of  a  cart 
cracking  a  carter's  whip,  and  yet  it  is  of  her  that  he 
has  been  reminded  as  the  odd  and  lovely  vision 
galloped  by. 

When  he  at  length  turns  his  gaze  away,  he  finds 
4 


46  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

that  Mrs.  Bevis,  having  chirruped  up  her  Peggj7  and 
Polly,  has  left  him  to  pursue  her  labors.  He  hurries 
compunctiously  after  her,  and  finds  her,  having  just 
exchanged  her  loaded  wagon  for  an  empty  one,  set- 
ting off  on  her  return  journey.  He  walks  along  be- 
side her,  and  about  mid-field  they  are  again  met  and 
crossed  by  Miss  Honor.  This  time,  with  a  towering 
load  of  nodding  sheaves  behind  her,  there  is  no  ques- 
tion of  galloping.  She  is  sitting  tranquilly  on  the 
shaft,  with  her  legs  dangling.  Harry  cannot  make 
up  his  mind  which  of  the  two  attitudes  is  the  more 
heavenly  graceful  and  womanly. 

All  work  and  no  play  makes  Jack  a  dull  boy  ;  and 
by  and  by  there  is  a  relaxation  of  toil,  a  half  hour  of 
recumbent  rest,  when  mistress  and  men  drink  their 
well-earned  tea,  the  men  beneath  the  hedge,  the 
ladies  and  their  guest  under  the  lee  of  the  stack. 
The  guest  has  been  presented  to  Miss  Lisle,  and  she 
lias  looked  at  him  with  a  large,  liquid,  mute  gaze, 
and  suffered  rather  than  encouraged  him  to  help  her 
in  making  tea  and  spreading  bread-and-jam — a  task 
which  is  evidently  a  daily  one  to  her,  and  one  to 
which  she  amply  suffices  without  his  aid.  It  seems 
to  him  as  if  someone  had  left  him  a  legacy  when  she 
asks  him — it  is  the  first  remark  with  which  she  has 
enriched  his  ear — whether  he  minds  helping  himself 
to  sugar  with  his  fingers.  He  does  not  like  sugary 
tea,  but  he  goes  on  putting  lumps  into  his  cup  be- 
cause he  feels  that  she  expects  it  of  him. 

When,  her  labors  of  civility  ended,  and  no  one 
can  say  that  she  scamps  them,  she  leans  back 
against  the  warm  barley  wall  behind  her  with  a  little 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  47 

sigh  of  content,  Clarence  has  placed  himself  exactly 
opposite,  so  that,  without  offense,  he  is  able  to  steal 
frequent  looks  at  her.  Even  if  it  were  with  offense, 
he  would  have  to  do  it  ;  and,  after  all,  none  can 
blame  a  man  for  the  form  of  filial  piety  evidenced 
by  staring  at  a  woman  because  she  is  like  his  mother. 
And  she  is  like  her  :  one  of  those  curious  accidental 
likenesses,  strong  and  causeless,  which  one  sometimes 
meets  with,  and  which  lend  a  piquancy  to  the  con- 
trasts in  character  which  naturally  accompany  them. 
Not  even  the  difference  in  costume  from  anything  he 
has  ever  seen  his  mother  wear  succeeds  in  diminish- 
ing the  likeness.  She  wears  a  white  sunbonnet,  a 
dark  short  skirt  and  white  shirt,  with  a  large  red  and 
white  spotted  kerchief  crossed  over  her  chest,  and  at 
the  bottom  of  the  sunbonnet  shine  gravely  two  dark 
pntelope  eyes,  soft  yet  lucent,  that  make  the  strongest 
feature  in  the  similarity  which  has  struck  him. 

He  has  as  yet  scarcely  heard  her  speak.  Will  her 
voice  carry  on  the  illusion  ?  It  would  seem  that 
there  would  not  be  much  difficulty  in  finding  an  ob- 
servation to  make  to  a  lady  with  whom  you  are 
drinking  tea  in  the  perfect  informality  of  a  stack- 
shade  and  a  brown  glazed  teapot ;  but,  after  much 
effort,  he  can  find  nothing  better  than  a  platitude 
upon  her  activity,  which  he  worsens  by  tacking  on 
to  it — lugged  in,  as  he  feels,  by  the  head  and  shoul- 
ders, and  foolishly  applied  to  her — 

"  Witching  the  world  with  noble  horsemanship," 

a  line  whose  unsuitable  purple  shines  like  a  patch  of 
velvet  upon  his  drugget. 


48  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

She  looks  at  him  from  the  depths  of  her  dimity 
tunnel  with  unaffected  surprise  and  inquiry. 

"But  surely,"  she  says  gravely,  " you  do  not  call 
leading  a  wagon  horsemanship?" 

Her  voice,  too,  is  like  his  mother's — at  least,  it  is 
as  low  and  round  ;  but  he  is  not  able  to  enjoy  the 
discovery,  as  he  is  too  overcome  by  the  matter-of- 
fact  astonishment  with  which  his  lame  compliment 
has  been  received. 

It  is  clear  that  nothing  is  further  from  the  girl's 
intention  than  to  snub  him,  and  yet  it  is  with  a  dis- 
agreeably small  feeling,  coupled  with  a  momentary 
wonder  at  any  educated  person  not  recognizing  such 
a  Shakesperian  commonplace,  that  he  mutters  some- 
thing about  its  being  a  quotation.  His  amour  propre 
is  not  further  soothed  by  the  undisguised  mirth  with 
which  Mrs.  Be  vis  receives  the  result  of  his  conver- 
sational essay. 

"  I  must  advise  you  not  to  waste  any  quotations 
upon  Honor.  She  never  willingly  opens  a  book." 

Clarence  looks  involuntarily  at  the  person  accused, 
expecting  a  disclaimer  as  strong  as  the  extreme  gen- 
tleness of  her  voice  will  permit ;  but  none,  or  any 
attempt  at  such,  comes.  The  crime  of  which  she  is 
accused  is  evidently  no  crime  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  do  not  like  reading,"  she  acquiesces  gravely; 
adding,  as  if  stating  a  truism:  "I  think  it  is  such  a 
waste  of  time!  " 

His  blue  eyes  open  wide,  while  Mrs.  Bevis  goes  on 
laughing: 

"Waste  of  time!  Well  that  is  a  new  point  of 
view!" 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  49 

"  Is  it  ?  Why,  surely," — speaking  with  the  most 
perfect  frank  simplicity,  and  without  the  slightest 
wish  to  be,  or  dream  of  being,  thought  eccentric, — 
"  surely  it  is  a  waste  of  time  to  be  indoors  when  you 
can  be  out! " 

She  looks  up  skyward  as  she  speaks,  and  half 
opens  her  lips  with  a  sigh  of  pleasure,  as  if  to  take 
in  a  drink  of  heaven's  good  air. 

"  But  in  winter — in  winter  evenings  ?  You  cannot 
be  out  of  doors  then  ?  " 

"  I  am  always  out  till  long  after  dark;  and  when  I 

«*  O 

come  in,  if  I  take  up  a  book Mrs.  Bevis  is  wrong 

in  saying  that  I  never  read;  I  sometimes  have  to, 
when  there  is  nothing  better  to  do,  but  I  almost 
always  fall  asleep." 

The  confession  is  made  without  the  smallest  sign 
of  shame,  and  remains  unremonstrated  upon.  One 
of  the  hearers  has  heard  it  often  before,  while  the 
other 

The  harvesters  have  finished  their  tea,  and  their 
wives  have  begun  anew  to  ply  their  rakes,  their 
draggling,  bunchy  gowns  and  tawdry-flowered  hats 
making  a  striking  contrast  to  the  short,  plain,  lovely 
succinctness  of  Miss  Lisle's  costume.  But,  poor 
souls!  were  they  Aphrodites  dressed  by  Doucet, 
where  would  they  be  beside  her  ?  He  sees  her  after- 
ward dressed  in  many  pretty  fashions,  but  it  is  in 
her  white  sunbonnet  that  she  will  go  down  to  his 
grave  with  him. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"  Light  thickens,  and  the  crow 
Makes  wing  to  the  rooky  wood." 

IT  seems  a  pity  that  the  barley  should  not  be 
finished  carrying  ;  so  they  all  work  on  with  a  will 
until  the  sun  lias  long  withdrawn  his  shining,  and 
his  silver  sister  is  holding  her  scepter  over  the  shorn 
field.  All  three  jog  home  together  in  a  little  Norfolk 
cart,  but  the  course  taken  is  a  more  uneven  one  than 
that  of  the  level  highroad  by  which  Clarence  had 
been  brought  ;  for  Miss  Honor,  who  drives,  in  order 
to  abridge  their  return  journey — since  they  are  in- 
deed late — takes  them  in  a  straight  line,  with  hardly 
more  divergences  than  the  proverbial  crow.  But, 
since  they  have  a  good  many  more  obstacles  to 
encounter  than  the  bird  in  his  sky-meadow,  it  seems 
to  the  stranger  several  times  that  they  must  infallibly 
upset.  But  the  charioteer  evidently  knows  both  the 
country  and  the  limits  of  the  powers  of  endurance  of 
her  chariot ;  for  though  they  are  several  tiu;es  at  an 
angle  which  seems  to  insure  instant  overthrow, — Mrs. 
Bevis  and  Honor  towering  up  skyward  on  the  top 
of  some  ridge  or  ditch-edge,  while  he  himself  sinks 
below  the  horizon,  or  vice  versa, — yet,  to  the  surprise 
of  no  one  but  himself  (the  ladies  have  taken  their 
inequalities  and  peril  as  the  most  matter-of-course  of 
daily  incidents),  they  are  all  landed  safely  at  the 

50 


SYCLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  51 

stable  door.  Here,  to  his  surprise,  but  again  as  a 
matter  of  course  to  liis  companions,  no  groom  appear- 
ing, Mrs.  Bevis  and  Honor  unharness  the  pony  and 
lead  him  into  his  stable. 

Mrs.  Bevis'  house  is  undoubtedly  a  cottage  whose 
thick  walls,  small-paned  windows,  and  window-seats 
tell  its  ripe  age  ;  but  it  has  none  of  a  cottage's 
squeeziness.  A  put-out  wing  here,  expanded  offices 
there,  give  it  ease  and  commodity.  A  long  narrow 
drawing  room,  born  of  the  knocking  two  smaller 
rooms  into  one,  runs  along  the  garden  front,  with  its 
light  tempered  by  a  creeper-smothered  veranda 
where  William  Allen  Richardson  slips  his  oranged 
blossoms  through  a  tangle  of  jessamine,  and  where  a 
luxuriant  vine  has  to  be  pushed  away  from  the  case- 
ment windows  above,  like  hair  out  of  a  maid's  eyes, 
to  enable  one  to  see  out. 

Clarence  makes  these  and  other  discoveries  next 
morning,  when,  having  risen  early,  he  passes  through 
the  already  air  and  sun  sweetened  house  to  the  square 
flower  garden  beyond — the  square  garden  cunningly 
sunk  between  sloped  grass-banks  to  protect  it  from 
the  keenness  of  the  Eastshire  winds.  It  is  now  gor- 
geous with  a  dewy  crowd  of  late  summer  jewels — 
gaillardia  and  chrysanthemums,  gladioli  and  dahlias. 
He  had  thought  to  have  had  these  morning  pleasant- 
nesses to  himself,  or  shared  them  only  with  the  gar- 
dener scything  the  terrace  banks  ;  but  he  has  not 
made  three  steps  on  its  sward  before  he  perceives 
Miss  Lisle  standing  by  a  green  tub — one  of  several 
that  adorn  the  parterre — overbrimming  with  flower- 
ing geraniums,  and  with  a  hanging  fringe  of  sweet 


52  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

peas  fragrantly  depending  from  it.  She  Las  a  green  - 
and-red  parrot  on  her  shoulder,  and  another  on  her 
finger. 

He  had  been  surprised  as  he  came  through  the 
house  to  hear  the  crying  of  an  infant,  and  now  dis- 
covers that  the  sound  proceeds  from  one  of  the 
parrots,  who  is  giving  a  very  lifelike  rendering  of 
the  squalls  of  an  extremely  angry  baby,  greatly 
aided  therein  by  Miss  Honor  herself,  who  assists  his 
memory  with  her  own  voice. 

She  is  so  occupied  that  she  does  not  perceive  him 
till  lie  is  close  upon  her  ;  nor  does  it  strike  him 
that  she  is  particularly  pleased  when  she  does.  She 
stops  squalling,  though  the  bird  continues,  and  her 
face  stiffens — unnecessarily,  as  he  thinks. 

"  How  well  he  does  it !  How  well  you  have 
taught  him  ! " 

"I  did  not  teach  him.  They  have  just  arrived 
from  Venezuela  ;  and  I  suppose  they  heard  the  black 
babies  crying  there." 

Her  voice  is  sweet  and  civil,  but  her  manner  is 
prim.  It  is  clear  that  she  does  not  want  him.  The 
conviction  makes  him  feel -awkward. 

"  At  least  you  help  him  not  to  forget  his  accomplish- 
ment?" 

"  I  can  always  talk  to  birds." 

The  statement  is  a  simple  one,  yet  it  seems  to  con. 
vey  an  implication  that  she  neither  is  nor  desires  to 
be  as  conversationally  successful  with  her  own  kind. 
He  wishes  vaguely  that  he  could  gracefully  leave 
her.  She  saves  him  the  trouble,  moving  softly  house- 
ward  in  her  coarse  blue  serge  gown,  with  a  red-and- 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  53 

yellow  bandanna  knotted  loosely  round  her  pretty 
brown  throat,  and  with  the  black  baby's  counterfeit 
still  persistently  yammering  in  his  green-and-red  on 
her  shoulder. 

"  You  have  been  making  friends  with  Honor,  over 
her  parrots  ?  " 

It  is  the  cordial  voice  of  his  hostess,  crossing  the 
sward  to  meet  him. 

"  H'm  !  "—doubtfully—"  I  am  afraid  the  friendli- 
ness was  rather  lopsided.  Why  is  she  so  very  stand- 
off ?" 

Mrs.  Bevis  shrugs  her  shoulders. 

"I  am  afraid  her  first  impulse  on  meeting  a 
stranger — a  strange  man,  that  is — is  to  put  all  her 
bristles  up.  They  are  not  very  formidable  ones," — 
smiling, — "and  if  you  knew  the  kind  of  men  with 
whom  she  is  habitually  thrown — if  you  knew  her 
story,  in  fact,  you  would  not  wonder." 

Certainly  Clarence  asks  nothing  better  than  to 
know  it.  They  have  stepped  up  and  off  the  little 
grass  bank  to  the  terrace  walk  above  it,  whose  low 
close  ivy  hedge,  topping  a  haha,  divides  it  from  the 
field,  where  an  old  chestnut  mare  is  cropping  the  grass. 
Clarence  wishes  that  she  was  not,  since  her  owner  stops 
to  wish  her  a  kind  good-morning  before  going  on  : 

"  You  know  that  her  father  is  Algernon  Lisle,  the 
well-known  racing  man?" 

"  I  did  not  know  it." 

"  But  you  have  heard  of  him  ?" 

"  Naturally  !  "  with  emphasis. 

"  You  know  the  sort  of  character  he  bears — the 
sort  of  company  he  keeps  ?  " 


54  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

"And" — precipitately — "  has  she  to  keep  it,  too?" 

Mrs.  Bevis  gives  a  rather  melancholy  nod. 

"To  a  certain  extent,  yes.  Isn't  it  disgraceful? 
But,  happily,  what  she  has  most  to  suffer  from  is 
neglect.  He  leaves  her  alone  for  months  together  at 
a  large,  dreary,  half-dismantled  place  he  has  in  the 
country  ;  and  it  is  only  now  and  then  that  he  swoops 
down  upon  her  with  a  horde  of  doubtful  ladies  and 
shady  sporting  men,  most  of  whom,  as  far  as  I  can 
make  out,  persecute  her  with  extremely  equivocal 
attentions." 

"And  does  she  class  me  with  them?"  in  a 
wounded  voice. 

"  Oh,  no,  no  !  But  she  has  got,  poor  child  !  into  a 
habit  of  self-defense;  and,  really,  deplorable  as  the 
situation  is,  it — such  companionship,  I  mean — does 
her  less  harm  than  it  would  to  anyone  else  in  the 
world.  She  has  the  most  extraordinary  faculty  of 
shaking  water  off  her  feathers." 

Pie  does  not  interrupt  her  by  a  word,  but  there  is 
such  a  look  of  mingled  indignation  and  interest  in 
his  look  that  she  gives  him  an  approving  glance  and 
goes  on  : 

"She  is  not  in  the  least  innocent,  in  the  mistaken 
sense  in  which  that  word  is  generally  employed  as  a 
synonym  for  '  ignorant.'  How  should  she  be,  with 
her  upbringing?  No,  Honor  is  the  least  ignorant  of 
evil,  and  the  most  really  innocent  girl  I  have  ever 
met.  Do  jrou  understand  ?  " 

Thus  directly  stated,  it  would  be  odd  if  he  did  not ; 
and  even  if  the  possibility  of  the  combination  sug- 
gested were  at  first  difficult  of  belief  to  him,  a  week 


SCYLLA  OR  CIIARYBDIS?  55 

in  the  company  of  her  of  whom  it  is  predicated  renders 
it  a  dogma  from  which  neither  torture  nor  death 
could  sever  him. 

That  week — that  wonderful  week  !  Its  days 
mounting  in  stages  from  the  "good  "  of  the  first  sight 
of  her  in  triumphant  gallop  on  her  wagon-tilt, 
through  the  "  better  "  of  the  subsequent  talks  through 
the  half  hour  of  rest  for  tea  under  the  waxing  stack 
on  later  days,  to  the  "best  "of  the  final  day's 
shrimping. 

Her  slight  frost  has  thawed  under  the  careful 
reverence  of  his  manner,  and  as  early  as  the  second 
evening  he  has  made  successful  breaches  in  her  taci- 
turnity. She  is  never  a  great  talker,  but  she  lets 
him,  by  and  by,  have  glimpses  into  her  life.  He  would 
not  have  understood  them  if  he  had  not  had  Mrs. 
Bevis'  previous  hints  to  enlighten  him,  as  Honor 
never  makes  the  smallest  complaint  of  her  lot  ;  but 
they  sufficiently  conform  to  his  hostess'  account  of 
the  girl's  mode  of  existence  to  fill  up  the  measure  of 
his  tender  pity. 

By  the  week  end  he  is  in  a  trance  of  ecstasy  over 
her  odd  duodecimo  beauty,  her  strange  accomplish- 
ments, her  pretty  pluck,  her  silences,  her  snatches  of 
short  speech.  And  yet  he  is  a  bookish  man,  and  she 
never  for  one  moment  blenches  or  wavers  in  her 
strong  and  consistent  assertion  of  her  detestation  of 
all  book-learning. 

"  Does  she  really  hate  reading  ? "  he  asks  Mrs. 
Bevis,  as  they  sit  smoking  cigarettes  opposite  each 
other,  sunk  in  deep  wicker  armchairs  in  the  red- 
papered,  white-dadoed  sitting  hall. 


56  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

"If  she  says  so" — laughing — "you  may  be  sure 
that  she  does,  for  she  is  the  most  absolutely  looking- 
glassly  truthful  person  I  ever  met.  Yes,  really  and 
truly,  she  does  hate  the  sight  of  a  book.  I  want  to 
try  to  reconcile  her  a  little  to  them.  I  shall  never  do 
much  " — laughing  again — "  but  you  will  help  me  ?  " 

"  I  shall  be  delighted  ;    but  how  ?  " 

"  We  do  not  go  to  the  harvest  field  till  after 
luncheon  to-morrow  ;  you  might  pick  out  something 
short  and  attractive  to  read  to  us  in  the  morning  out- 
of-doors." 

"  Prose  or  verse  ?  " 

"  Not  verse,  certainly.  She  is  of  Hotspur's  opinion, 
and  would  '  rather  hear  a  dry  wheel  grate  on  the 
axle-tree.' " 

"  Incredible  !     With  that  face  !  " 

"But  she  knows  a  good  deal,  too,  of  an  out-of-the- 
way  sort.  Her  knowledge  of  birds  and  beasts  and 
their  ways  puts  me,  and  would,  I  dare  say,  put  you, 
too,  to  shame." 

"  It  might  easily  do  that." 

The  proposed  morning's  reading  to  improve  Honor's 
mind  never  comes  off,  so  many  outdoor  temptations 
arise  to  prevent  it  ;  but  on  Sunday  evening,  as  they 
sit  in  the  library,  the  dropped  subject  is  taken  up. 

Of  all  the  rooms  in  the  exquisitely  comfortable 
cottage-house,  the  library  is  Clarence's  favorite.  The 
library  was  once  a  kitchen,  whose  wide-yawning 
chimney,  though  now  decorated  by  a  high,  white, 
carved-wood  chimney-piece,  and  surmounted  by  a 
white-framed  mirror,  betrays  by  its  hospitable  bigness 
its  original  intention. 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  57 

The  evening,  though  August,  is  chilly,  and  a  drift- 
wood fire  flickers  on  the  bookshelves  that  almost  hide 
the  walls,  laden  with  inviting  and  obviously  readable 
books,  wooing  the  student's  hand  to  take  them  from 
under  their  red  leather  flap.  The  walls  are  red,  too, 
wherever  the  books  allow  them  to  show  their  genial 
face,  and  white  Portugal  china  pleasantly  tops  the 
shelves.  A  better  setting  for  a  literary  treat  could 
not  be  imagined.  Honor  has  placed  herself  on  a 
straight-backed  chair,  so  as  to  be  less  susceptible  of 
the  allurements  of  slumber.  Mrs.  Bevis  lies  back  in 
her  sofa  corner,  with  the  enjoyment  of  rest  of  a 
habitually  active  woman  after  a  week's  harvesting. 

Clarence,  having  carefully  chosen  his  book,  "  The 
Outcasts  of  Poker  Flat,"  begins.  It  impossible  that 
anyone  short  of  the  Seven  Sleepers,  or  Mr.  Wardle's 
Joe,  could  fall  asleep  over  Bret  Harte. 

It  has  always  been  one  of  the  choicest  pleasures  of 
his  mother's  life  to  be  read  aloud  to  by  him,  and 
from  other  lips  besides  her  fondly  prejudiced  ones  he 
has  received  compliments  upon  his  reading.  His 
mother  has  always  worked  while  he  read,  though 
often  in  the  ardor  of  listening  the  dainty  crewel  or 
cambric  has  dropped  from  her  fingers  into  her 
lap.  Honor  never  works,  and  he  shrewdly  suspects 
her  of  not  possessing  the  necessary  implements — 
scissors,  thread,  or  thimble.  She  sits  straight  up  now, 
with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  him.  At  first  it  makes  him 
nervous,  and  he  has  an  inclination  to  ask  her  to  look 
away.  But  presently  the  consciousness  that  those 
worlds  of  pensive  fire  are  upon  him  spirits  him  up  to 
a  more  sj^mpathetic  rendering  of  his  author.  He  is 


58  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

conscious  of  having  never  before  read  so  well.  This 
feeling  is  heightened  when  she  presently  alters  her 
position,  and,  still  gazing  fixedly  at  him,  leans  her 
arms  upon  the  table  before  her,  as  if  to  bring  sight 
and  hearing  closer  to  the  focus  of  interest.  He  steals 
a  glance  at  her  as  he  nears  the  climax.  A  film — is  it 
of  gathering  tears  ? — -is  stealing  over  the  large  dark 
pupils  ;  and  as  the  infinitely  pathetic  catastrophe  is 
reached,  the  little  lovely  head  falls  forward  on  the 
outstretched  arms. 

He  has  triumphed.  She  will  not  let  him  see  her 
tears,  but  she  will  never  again  say  that  she  hates 
books.  But  will  she  not? 

"  Isn't  it  incredible  that  even  that  could  not  keep 
her  awake?"  asks  Mrs.  Bevis,  in  a  voice  still  strangled 
by  her  own  emotion  at  thvi  well-known  yet  ever-won- 
drous story.  "  Honor,  I  am  ashamed  of  you  !  " 

At  the  vigorous  shoulder-shake  which  accompanies 
this  expression  of  opinion,  the  girl  stirs,  lifts  her  head, 
and  opens  two  eyes,  dry  as  bones,  but  heavy  with 
unmistakable  slumber.  As  they  light  on  Clarence, 
the  dreamy  look  gives  way  to  one  of  sincere  con- 
trition. 

"  I  am  so  sorry,"  she  says  quietly,  "  but  I  told  you 
how  it  would  be.  I  did  try  to  keep  awake,  and  for  a 
time  I  thought  I  had  succeeded  ;  but  then  your  voice 
went  on  and  on  "  (he  had  imagined  that  he  had  varied 
its  tones  so  subtly),  "  and  it  was  too  much  for  me. 
But  I  beg  your  pardon." 

This  mortification — and  it  is  at  first  an  acute  one — 
is  the  sole  blot  on  that  kingly  week.  Even  it  turns 


SCYLLA  OR  CIIARYBDIS?  59 

out  to  be  a  blessing  in  disguise,  Honor's  compunction 
for  the  wound  she  lias  inflicted  drawing  her  more  out 
of  her  shell  than  had  any  of  his  efforts  to  conciliate 
her.  She  has  not  expressed  her  repentance  in  words, 
of  which  she  has  never  a  very  large  store,  but  by 
little  graciousnesses  and  a  general  drawing  nearer  to 
him  than  before  the  catastrophe.  By  the  time  that 
the  shrimping  day  is  reached,  that  supreme  last  day, 
he  is  actually  glad  that  she  had  fallen  asleep  over  his 
reading. 

By  the  shrimping  day  the  harvest  is  all  in.  Mrs. 
Bevis  would  not  otherwise  have  countenanced,  much 
less  shared,  such  a  faithless  frivolity.  The  harvest  is 
in,  and  the  "  frolic  "  that  crowns  it  over.  The  frolic 
takes  place  in  the  great  barn.  Mrs.  Bevis  has 
opened  the  ball  with  the  "  Lord  of  the  Harvest,"  and 
Miss  Lisle  has  danced  down  all  her  fellow-toilers  and 
returned  thanks  at  supper  for  her  own  health,  drunk 
with  clamorous  applause,  in  a  succinct  little  speech 
delivered  without  hesitation  and  with  not  a  superflu- 
ous word.  And  now  it  is  the  succeeding  afternoon, 
and  the  three  friends  are  driving  down  in  the  Nor- 
folk cart  to  the  sands.  Honor  drives,  up  and  down, 
over  the  sand-hills,  serenely  indifferent  to  jolts  and 
lurches.  A  basket  of  provisions,  shrimping-nets,  etc., 
has  been  carefully  put  in  by  her.  She  and  her  hostess 
are  wrapped  to  their  heels  in  long  blue  cloaks  with 
red  hoods.  Arrived,  they  unpack  the  cart,  and  tether 
the  pony  among  the  sparse  sea-grass  and  sea-hollies. 

Clarence  has  turned  away  for  a  moment  to  scan  the 
sea — rather  rough  to-day — and,  on  looking  back, 
gives  a  start. 


60  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

Honor  is  stripped  of  her  cloak  and  hat,  and  stands 
in  her  shrimping-costume  before  him — bare  legs  and 
feet,  a  blue  serge  blouse  belted  round  her  slender 
waist,  and  with  a  square  red  sailor  collar  and  blue 
knickerbockers.  A  red  silk  handkerchief  is  tied  over 
her  sleek  black  head. 

She  stands  with  perfect  sangfroid,  getting  ready 
her  net.  He  could  not  have  believed  that  bare  legs 
and  knickerbockers  could  be  consistent  with  so  digni- 
fied a  composure.  He  fears,  the  moment  after  he  has 
uttered  it,  that  it  is  not  in  perfect  taste,  but  the 
ejaculation  seems  forced  from  him  : 

"  What  a  very  pretty  dress  ! " 

"Most  people  like  it,"  replied  she,  calmly  acquies- 
cent in  his  admiration  as  nothing  odd  or  novel — 
"everybody,  I  think,  except  my  nurse,  Mrs.  Nasmyth  ; 
she  cannot  bear  to  see  me  in  it  ;  she  would  like  to 
burn  it." 

"  She  cannot  be  a  person  of  much  perception,  your 
nurse,  Mrs. " 

He  hesitates  at  the  unusual  name,  and  she  supplies 
it  : 

"  Nasmyth." 

"  Nasmyth,"  repeats  he,  putting  his  hand  to  his 
forehead,  while  a  faint  ripple  of  recollection  runs 
over  his  memory.  "  In  the  dark  ages,  many,  many 
years  ago,  I,  too,  had  a  nurse  of  that  name.  Do  you 
think  that  she  can  by  any  possibility  be  the  same 
person  ?  " 

"  If  she  were,  I  should  think  that  she  would  have 
mentioned  you." 

"  If  she  were,"  returns  he,  oddly  stirred  by  the 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  61 

idea,  "  it  would  constitute  a  sort  of  relationship 
between  us — like  being  god-children  of  the  same 
person." 

She  does  not  answer,  except  by  a  look,  which  has 
once  or  twice  before  puzzled  him — very  full  and 
direct,  and  yet  with  a  half  frown,  as  if  not  fully  com- 
prehending, or  else  not  liking  to  accept,  his  drift. 

He  is  not  sure  that  he  has  not  displeased  her. 
But  if  he  has,  it  is  a  very  passing  shadow. 

It  is  in  perfect  amity  that  all  walk  over  the  sands 
together.  The  two  ladies  have  entered  the  frothy 
sea,  and  it  is  with  a  penetrating  sense  of  annoyance 
that  the  young  man  sees  Honor  going  deeper  and 
deeper  into  the  heaving  waves.  He  feels  profoundly 
chagrined  at  being  prevented  by  the  unsuitability  of 
his  dress  from  following  her. 

Pushing  her  net  before  her,  she  goes,  stirring  up 
the  sand  in  which  the  shrimps  are  found,  and  ever 
and  anon  pulling  it  up  to  see  what  luck  she  has  had. 

He  walks  along  the  dry  shore  parallel  and  tanta- 
lized, shouting  remarks  to  her,  of  which  the  singing 
sea-wind  carries  away  half  ;  and  she  sending"  him 
back  little  words  across  the  intervening  fringe  of 
breakers,  telling  him  that  on  bad  da}*s  she  has  to  go 
in  deeper  than  on  fair  ones,  and  that  she  had  been  in 
up  to  her  neck  before  now. 

After  a  while  she  emerges,  dripping,  and  radiant 
with  success.  The  hostess  follows.  Both  re-envelop 
themselves  in  their  blue  cloaks,  and,  making  a  fire — 
in  this,  at  least,  he  can  help — put  on  a  little  pot 
brought  with  them,  and  cook  the  shrimps  in  it. 

They  are  inclosed  in  a  small  net-bag  ;  a  great  lump 
5 


62  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

of  extra  salt  is  put  into  the  sea-water  in  which  they 
are  boiled,  and  when,  after  three  or  four  minutes, 
the  transparent  bodies  have  turned  solid,  the  water 
is  poured  off,  and  everyone,  putting  in  his  finger  and 
thumb,  helps  himself. 

Honor  lias,  as  on  the  harvest  day,  cut  bread  and 
butter.  The  shrimps  are  piping  hot,  and  was  there 
ever  such  a  princety  banquet  ? 

They  are  quite  sheltered  from  the  land  breezes  by 
a  protecting  sand-hill,  and  after  the  feast  is  ended 
the  two  fisherwomen  race  along  the  beach  to  dry 
themselves.  He  runs,  too,  for  company. 

It  is  growing  toward  sunsetting,  and  the  path  of 
gold  that  leads  straight  to  the  sun  moves  with  them 
on  the  wet  sand  as  they  run.  Long  pinkish  tongues  of 
sand  that  run  out  into  the  sea  are  getting  uncovered 
by  the  ebbing  tide. 

Then  they  pack  up,  and  bump  home  again  in  the 
cart. 

"  We  shall  not  let  you  be  a  looker-on  next  time," 
says  the  hostess.  "  Next  time  you  must  come  more 
suitably  appareled." 

His  eye  brightens. 

"  Then  there  is  to  be  a  next  time  ?  " 

"I  should  rather  think  so  !  "  with  great  cordiality. 

"  It  will  not  be  my  fault  if "  he  begins,  with  a 

headlong  impulse  of  acceptance,  then  breaks  off  short. 

Once  again,  in  the  low  red  light,  he  feels  the  great 
stag-eyes  opposite  looking  doubtfully  at  him  out  of 
the  beloved  little  face,  which  has  been  kissed  into 
brighter  beauty  by  the  pungent  sea  air. 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  63 

The  last  sight  lie  has  of  her  next  morning  is  stand- 
ing at  the  wicket  gate,  with  one  green -an  d-red  par- 
rot on  her  shoulder  and  the  other  on  her  finger,  as 
he  had  found  her  on  the  dewy  grass  plot.  But  her 
face  is  no  longer  prim.  He  is  almost  quite  sure  that 
she  is  sorry  he  is  going. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  Linleys'  child^the  one  that  is  not  quite  right 
in  the  head — must  be  ill,  for  it  has  not  been  out  in  its 
perambulator  for  two  days,  and  now  the  others  are 
going  out  without  it. 

This  interesting  piece  of  news  has  been  given  to 
Mrs.  Clarence  by  her  cousin,  Abigail  Dent,  who, 
standing  as  she  does  a  great  part  of  the  day  at  the 
drawing-room  window,  is  in  a  position  to  keep  her 
hostess  posted  in  every  detail  that  can  be  gleaned 
from  their  exits  and  entrances,  their  tradesmen's  carts, 
their  maids'  flirting  capped  heads  down  the  areas,  and 
their  own  occasional  appearances  at  their  windows 
pulling  up  or  letting  down  blinds,  of  her  neighbors' 
lives. 

During  the  week  of  Abigail's  visit  (she  arrived  on 
the  day  of  Harry's  departure,  and  he  has  been 
gone — a  slight  sigh  escapes  his  mother  as  she  makes 
the  reflection — a  whole  week)  Mrs.  Clarence  has 
learned  more  of  the  history,  habits,  and  character  of 
her  neighbors  than  an  aeon  of  her  own  unassisted 
observation  would  have  taught  her.  To  most  people 
the  deadest  street  in  dead  St.  Gratian  would  not 
seem  to  afford  much  matter  for  close  and  acutely 
interested  study,  but  to  Abigail,  fresh  from  the  yet 
deader  depths  of  a  parish  in  the  Lincolnshire  Fens,  it 
seems  a  second  Piccadilly. 

64 


SCYLLA  OR  CIIARYBDIS?  65 

Nor  is  she  niggard  of  the  information  reaped — 
over-bounteous  rather,  though  that  she  thinks  so  no 
one  would  guess  from  the  listener's  manner.  The 
remark  about  the  afflicted  little  Linle}r  calls  forth  only 
the  patient  and  rather  apologetic  rejoinder  : 

"  I  am  afraid  I  do  not  quite  remember  who  the 
Li n leys  are." 

"  They  are  the  doctor's  family.  He  ought  to  have 
his  night-bell  mended  ;  it  is  broken.  There  was  a 
man  pulling  at  it  for  half  an  hour  last  night." 

"  Was  there,  indeed  ?  " 

That  our  words  and  thoughts  do  often  not  very 
closely  tally  is  a  truism  of  truisms,  and  no  one  who 
heard  this  languid  query  would  divine  the  far  from 
languid  aspiration  that  accompanies  it — an  aspiration 
to  dislodge  Abigail  from  her  post  at  the  window — 
that  post  of  observation  upon  Harry's  return  which 
has  always  been  his  mother's,  and  which  this  girl  is 
in  all  innocence  usurping. 

It  needs  but  a  word,  and  the  child  would  eagerly 
yield  it ;  but  the  fear  that  is  always  with  Mrs.  Clar- 
ence, of  making  her  son  ridiculous  through  overshow 
of  affection,  restrains  her,  and  the  word  remains 
unspoken,  while  she  sits  on  in  her  prospectless  arm- 
chair, and  receives  with  outward  sweetness  such 
further  scraps  of  information  as  Miss  Abigail  chooses 
to  throw  her. 

For  some  time  they  are  of  a  not  more  agitating 
type  than  that,  from  his  manner  of  running  down  the 
street  with  his  tail  lowered,  she  is  sure  that  the  Hick- 
sons'  dog  is  out  without  leave,  and  that  the  Jameses' 
housemaid  is  cleaning  the  top  windows,  sitting  on  the 


66  SCYLLA.  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

ledge  outside,  with  the  window  shut  down  upon  her 
knees,  and  "Isn't  it  very  dangerous?"  But  when 
these  announcements  are  exchanged  for  a  series  of 
ejaculations  :  "  This  must  be  Harry  !  There  is  an  H. 
C.  on  the  portmanteau.  It  is  Harry  !  How  well  he 
looks — burnt  as  brown  as  a  berry  !  I  will  run  down 
and  let  him  in  !  " — when  this  point  is  readied,  and  the 
girl  runs  toward  the  door,  strained  nature  gives  way, 
and  with  "  No,  no,  dear  ;  please  not  :  I  always  let 
him  in  myself,"  Mrs.  Clarence  puts  her  young  cousin 
gently  aside,  and  passes  out  and  down  so  swiftly  that 
she  has  reached  and  opened  the  door  as  he  drives  up. 
She  draws  a  long  breath  of  relief  as  she  does  so.  It 
would  have  been  a  bad  omen  if  she  had  been  just  too 
late,  and  she  would  not  have  liked  a  bad  omen  to-day, 
of  all  days,  though  she  could  not  have  told  you 
why. 

Pie  is  too  busy  at  first  paying  his  cab,  with  his  back 
turned  to  her,  for  her  to  get  a  good  view  of  his  face. 
When  she  does,  she  is  aware  of  an  unqualifiable 
change  in  it.  She  tries  to  tell  herself  that  it  is  only 
the  effect  of  that  sun  and  sea-wind  tan  which  Abigail 
has  described  as  "  burnt  as  brown  as  a  berry,"  but  she 
knows  in  her  own  heart  that  it  is  something  different. 
lie  kisses  her  with  what  she  knows  he  means  to  be 
his  usual  eager  tenderness  ;  but  to  her  it  seems  that 
his  kiss  is  scamped,  and  curtailed  by  his  breaking  off 
to  greet  his  little  cousin,  whose  seventeen-year-old 
fortitude  has  broken  down  to  the  extent  of  letting 
her  appear  at  the  stairtop,  peeping  rosily  over  the 
banisters. 

Nor,  when  they  are  in  the  drawing  room,  does  he 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  67 

show  rny  comfoi'table  inclination  to  sit  down  at  her 
feet  and  tell  her  all  about  it,  as  on  his  return  from 
circuit,  or,  indeed,  from  any  former  absences.  He 
walks  about  restlessly ;  compliments  Abigail  on  her 
growth,  for  which,  as  his  mother  feels,  he  yet  has  no 
real  eyes  ;  moves  a  chair  out  of  its  place  ;  kicks  aside 
a  footstool,  and  at  last  ejaculates,  in  an  oppressed 
voice  : 

"  How  close  your  room  feels  !  Are  the  windows 
open  ?  But  there  never  is  any  ozone  in  this  air. 
Ozone  is  one  of  the  things  that  this  dear  little  town 
is  chronically  out  of." 

He  laughs,  but  with  such  an  accent  of  disgust  that 
his  mother  steals  a  look  of  surprised  inquiry  at  him  as 
she  says : 

"  I  am  afraid  we  must  confess  that  in  the  matter  of 
breezes  we  do  not  compare  favorably  with  the  Broads." 

"  I  was  not  near  the  Broads." 

"No?" 

Faithful  to  her  lifelong  rule,  she  adds  no  question, 
and  at  first  he  seems  disinclined  to  go  further  in  cor- 
recting the  mistake  in  her  supposition.  He  takes 
another  fidgety  stroll  round,  and  then  says,  half 
apologetically  : 

"  I  suppose  it  is  the  entirely  outdoor  life  which  I 
have  been  leading  that  makes  me  feel  any  house 
stuffy." 

She  takes  this  crumb  of  incidental  information 
gratefully. 

'•You  have  been  a  gi'eat  deal  out  of  doors?  I 
thought  you  would.  I  was  glad  of  the  fine  weather 
for  you." 


68  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

"  And  you — you  and  Abigail  ?  How  have  you 
been  getting  on  ?  " 

If  Mrs.  Clarence  is  disappointed  at  this  diversion 
of  the  stream  into  another  channel,  just  as  she  had 
hoped  that  it  had  begun  to  flow  toward  her,  she 
shows  no  sign. 

"We  have  been  waiting  to  'get  on'  till  you  came 
back  to  give  us  a  push.  We  have  been  standing 
still,  haven't  we,  Abigail?" 

"It  has  been  delightful !  V  replies  Abigail,  with  an 
accent  of  heartfelt  sincerity.  "  Oh,  if  Lord  Rosebery 
would  but  give  father  a  town  living  !  How  can  any- 
one that  can  help  it  live  in  the  country  ?  " 

" '  How  can  anyone  that  can  help  it  live  in  the 
country  f  y  "  repeats  Harry,  in  a  tone  of  such  mixed 
stupefaction,  and  yet  absence,  that  his  mother  gives  a 
slight  puzzled  laugh. 

"You  do  not  indorse  that  sentiment  ?  You  have 
been  finding  country  pleasures  less  contemptible  than 
Abigail  does  ?  " 

So  vague  and  neutral  an  inquiry  can  scarcely  be 
held  an  infringement  of  her  rule,  and  it  gets  no 
answer  but  an  unadorned  "  Yes." 

"  You  have  enjoyed  yourself  ?" 

"Yes." 

The  second  "Yes"  is  as  unadorned  as  the  first,  and 
has  no  intentional  emphasis  about  it ;  but  yet  to  his 
mother's  ear,  love-practiced  in  his  tones,  it  conveys 
an  idea  of  acuter  enjoyment  than  had  it  been 
escorted  by  half  a  dozen  ecstatic  adjectives. 

It  is  not  till  much  later  in  the  evening — not  till 
Abigail  has  regretfully  gone  to  bed,  after  offering 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  69 

her  cousin  many  innocent  and  Miranda-like  atten- 
tions, which  rather  embarrass  him — that  Mrs.  Clar- 
ence gets  any  more  light  upon  her  son's  visit  ;  and 
even  then  the  facts  communicated  seem  inadequate 
to  account  for  the  thrill  of  that  "  Yes,"  which  still 
echoes  in  her  frightened  ears. 

The  conversation  begins  indifferently. 

"  She  is  a  dear  little  thing,  isn't  she  ? "  asks  Mrs. 
Clarence,  as  the  door  shuts  upon  the  young  visitor, 
and  with  an  astute  caution  in  not  rushing  too  imme- 
diately upon  the  topic  she  is  longing  to  approach. 

He  starts. 

"  A  dear  little  thing  !     Who  is  a  dear  little  thing  ?  " 

"  Why,  Abigail." 

"  Abigail !  Of  course  !  Yes,  a  dear  little  thing, 
and,"  with  an  obvious  effort  to  pull  himself  together 
and  attend,  "  and  so  much  grown,  too  !  " 

"But  do  not  let  us  talk  about  Abigail." 

"  No  ?  " 

"  Let  us  talk  about  you" 

"Is  that  a  much  more  interesting  theme?" 

"  Well,  to  me  it  is." 

He  drops  a  light  kiss  on  the  top  of  her  head  as  an 
acknowledgment  of  this  expression  of  interest,  and 
sits  down  for  the  first  time  since  his  arrival  on  a  stool 
at  her  feet.  But  he  keeps  his  face  half  averted  from 
her  as  he  leans  against  her  knees,  and  though  it  is  an 
attitude  that  he  has  often  previously  taken,  she  can- 
not help  a  suspicion  that  it  is  now  chosen  inten- 
tionally. 

And  yet  what  is  there  in  the  facts  which  he  rather 
slowly  communicates  in  the  course  of  the  next  hour 


VO  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

that  would  seem  to  call  for  disguise  ?  That  he  has 
been  very  much  both  impressed  and  possessed  by  his 
hostess'  mode  of  life,  at  once  patriarchal  and  intel- 
lectual, is  patent.  But  though  he  speaks  with  bated 
breath  botli  of  the  flavor  of  her  cigarettes,  imported 
direct  from  Turkey,  and  of  the  half-finished  essay  she 
has  shown  him  upon  the  analogies  between  the  teach- 
ing of  Plato  and  Browning,  yet  the  tone  of  his  out- 
spoken admiration,  reassuringly  direct  and  straight- 
forward, sufficiently  convinces  his  listener  that  it  is 
not  Mrs.  Bevis  herself  with  whom  the  danger  so 
faintly,  yet  surely  scented,  lies.  With  whom,  then? 
No  hint  has  escaped  the  narrator  of  any  other  possi- 
ble source,  not  even  when  a  subtly  framed  query 
might  naturally  have  surprised  an  unintended  ad- 
mission. 

"And  you  did  not  get  tired  of  jom~  tete-a-tete  in  a 
whole  week  ?  " 

An  almost  imperceptible  pause. 

"It  can  hardly  be  called  a  tete-a-tete  when  you  are 
chaperoned  by  a  whole  field  of  harvesters  ;  and,  be- 
sides, a  friend  of  Mrs.  Bevis'  who  knows  a  good  deal 
about  farming,  and  who  always  helps  her  with  her 
harvest,  was  there." 

"A  neighboring  squire,  I  suppose?" 

"  No-o  ;  staying  in  the  house." 

The  downward  slope  is  insidiously  gradual.  At  the 
beginning  of  the  conversation  no  idea  of  concealing 
the  sex  of  his  co-guest  from  his  mother  had  occurred 
to  Clarence.  But,  now  that  she  herself  has  fallen 
into  the  error  of  concluding  that  a  "  friend  who  knows 
a  good  deal  about  farming"  must  necessarily  be  a 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  71 

man,  why  should  he  hinder  her  from  continuing  in  it? 
It  is  she  who  has  deceived  herself,  not  he  her  ;  and 
through  her  mistake  he  sees  a  way  of  escaping  from 
an  impasse  out  of  which  he  has  hitherto  discerned  no 
likely  issue. 

Despite  her  lifelong  efforts  to  hide  them,  he  is  as 
well  aware  as  she  of  the  jealous  terrors  that  always 
devour  her  when  she  knows  that  he  is  in  the  company 
of  young  and  attractive  women.  Up  to  the  present 
time  he  lias  often  taken  a  teasing  pleasure  in  height- 
ening her  empty  alarms,  secure,  in  the  clearness  of 
heart  and  conscience,  of  being  able  to  dissipate  them 
by  a  word.  This  time  he  has  been  tormented  by  the 
problem  how  to  baffle  the  anxious  penetration  of  her 
loving  eyes  while  describing,  in  however  chastened  a 
style,  the  woman  who  had  galloped  into  his  burnt 
heart  on  a  wagon -tilt.  But  if  his  mother  takes  it  for 
granted  that  the  agriculturist  alluded  to  was  a  man, 
the  difficulty  is  not  only  evaded,  but  escaped.  Her 
curiosity  will  be  but  slightly  aroused,  and  he  may  tell 
her  just  as  much  or  as  little  as  he  pleases.  The  re- 
sult shows  the  accuracy  of  his  calculations. 

"  You  must  have  been  a  nice,  harmonious  little 
party,"  she  says,  with  contented-looking  approbation, 
"I  do  not  wonder  that  with  such  surroundings  and 
such  a  cook  " — smiling — "  with  your  sailings,  and 
shrimpings,  and  harvestings,  you  enjoyed  yourself.  I 
am  so  glad  that  you  made  Mrs.  Bevis'  acquaintance. 
She  is  a  friend  after  my  own  heart  for  you.  I  hope 
you  will  often  go  there  again  ;  are  you  invited?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  have  a  general  invitation." 

She  looks  so  relieved  and  so  softly  beaming  with 


V2  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

joy  at  having  once  again  regained  her  treasure  unim- 
paired, that  his  heart  smites  him. 

"But  you  know  general  invitations  do  not  count 
for  much,"  he  says,  with  a  dim  feeling  that  he  must 
make  amends  to  her  for  his  duplicity.  "  Out  of  sight, 
out  of  mind,  you  know." 

He  has  resumed  his  uneasy  patrol,  and  when  she 
goes  to  bed,  she  leaves  him  still  at  it. 

The  Bramshill  family  are  strown  about  the  ground 
under  the  beeches,  which  give  their  name  to  the 
domain,  like  skittles  at  the  end  of  a  game.  The  heat 
has  been  the  means  of  thus  disposing  them,  even  their 
force  of  mind  and  body  succumbing  to  the  weather. 
The  judge  indeed,  who  feels  and  grumbles  at  the  heat 
a  good  deal  more  than  if  he  had  passed  his  life  in 
Greenland,  is  sitting  in  his  darkened  study  bewailing 
his  lost  punkah  ;  but  his  wife  and  such  of  his  sons  as 
are  not  pursuing  their  professions  in  foreign  lands,  or 
have  been  unsuccessful  in  securing  invitations  to  the 
moors,  and  his  one  fair  daughter,  are  all  arranged  in 
different  crawling,  kicking,  lounging,  dozing  attitudes 
on  the  parched  grass  at  the  only  spot  in  the  grounds 
where  a  breeze  sent  by  the  near-sliding  river  is  faintly 
felt.  The  one  drawback  to  this  delectable  summer 
spot  is  that  it  lies  in  full  view  of  the  carriage  drive, 
at  the  mercy  of  every  arriving  vehicle,  making  the 
"  not  at  home,"  so  dear  and  familiar  to  most  mouths, 
a  dead  letter. 

Euphemia  lies  in  a  hammock,  slowly  swinging  an 
immense  length  of  white  crepon,  sending  the  hot  but 
always  obedient  youths  on  many  trifling  and  not- 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  73 

very  necessary  errands,  and  frequently  refreshing 
herself  with  libations  from  a  jug  of  iced  coffee  at  her 
elbow.  Occasionally  she  flings  down  among  her  sub- 
jects scraps  of  information  out  of  a  journal  she  is 
turning  over.  Most  of  her  family  are  reading  to 
themselves,  and  in  such  cases  it  is  tiresome  to  have 
fragments  of  another  person's  literature  forced  upon 
you,  but  not  a  murmur  is  raised. 

"  There  were  forty -five  thousand  visitors  at  Con- 
stantinople on  Bank  Holiday." 

The  nearest  brother,  who  has  been  lying  on  his 
back,  rolls  over  on  his  face,  but  nothing  occurs  to 
him  to  say. 

"Forty-five  thousand  !  it  makes  one  gasp  to  think 
of  it,"  comments  Lad}7  Bramshill. 

"I  do  not  know  how  many  visitors  there  may 
have  been  at  Constantinople  on  Bank  Holiday,  but 
I'm  blessed  if  there  are  not  visitors  to  The  Beeches 
to-day.  Do  not  you  hear  wheels  ?  "  asks  another 
brother,  sitting  up  and  cocking  an  anxious  ear. 

In  a  second  they  are  all  erect  in  distrustful  sitting 
postures,  and  in  another  second,  the  eye  having  con- 
tinned  the  evidence  of  the  ear,  they  have  all  sprung 
to  their  feet  and  scudded  away,  swift  as  the  evening 
rabbit. 

"  There  they  go,  silly  fellows ! "  ejaculates  their 
mother,  with  a  lenient  sigh.  "You  will  not  go,  too, 
will  you,  Euphemia?" 

"  Nothing  is  further  from  my  thoughts,"  replies  the 
young  lady  composedly,  still  swinging  and  sipping. 
"  If  they  are  anybody  pleasant — I  cannot  imagine 
anything  less  likely — }-ou  might  bring  them  out  to  me." 


74  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

Lady  Bratnshill  makes  such  haste  to  comply  as  the 
hoisting  herself  out  of  a  deep  beehive  chair  will  ad- 
mit ;  but  before  she  has  made  three  steps  across  the 
sward,  she  sees  the  unwelcome  company,  led  by  the 
butler,  advancing  straight  to  the  family's  cool 
beechen  lair.  To  Lady  Bramshill  herself,  being  one 
to  whom  society  of  no  sort  comes  amiss,  they  are  not 
unwelcome,  even  before  she  recognizes  in  the  slender, 
smoke-color-clad  figure,  who  is  a  little  in  front  of 
two  unknown  ones,  her  girlhood's  hitherto  not  very 
expansive  friend. 

"Better  late  than  never!"  cried  she  heartily. 
"  What  do  you  mean  by  letting  a  whole  week  pass 
without  ever  coming  near  us?  But  we  will  not 
begin  to  quarrel  at  once.  And  so  this  is  little 
Harry  ! "  looking  at  him  witli  kindly  stupefaction, 
and  holding  out  her  left  hand  to  him,  since  her  right 
still  clasps  his  mother's.  "Ah,  Mr.  Harry  !  so  it  was 
you  whom  I  saw  in  the  post  office.  Little  Hnrry 
indeed !  Ha,  ha  !  I  must  present  you  to  little 
Euphemia.  Euphemia,  come  and  be  presented  to  my 
dear  old  chum,  Lucy  Clarence,  and  make  acquaint- 
ance with  that  extreme  rarity,  a  man  who  is  taller 
than  you — ha,  ha  !  Euphemia's  one  search  in  life" — 
laughing  proudly — "is  to  find  a  man  whom  she  is  not 
obliged  to  look  down  upon." 

Euphemia,  in  answer  to  this  eager  appeal,  has 
swung  herself  with  protesting  slowness  out  of  her 
hammock — such  slowness  that  by  the  time  she  stands 
erect  beside  it  the  visitors  have  reached  the  beechen 
shade.  She  pays  the  proper  civilities  prettily  enough 
to  Mrs.  Clarence,  though  her  own  parent  is  by  no 


75 

moans  sure  that  there  is  not  a  lurking  displeasure  in 
the  tail  of  her  eye,  and  then  critical!}'  surveys,  with 
eyes  about  on  a  level  with  his  own,  the  young 
man. 

"  I  hope,"  she  says  calmly,  "  that  you  will  join  me 
in  resistance,  if  my  mother  insists  upon  measuring  us 
together.  Much  of  my  life  is  spent  in  protesting 
against  having  to  stand  back-to-back  with  every  tall 
man  I  meet  on  first  introduction." 

He  has  no  instant  answer,  surprised  at  her  tone  ; 
the  youth  fulness  of  her  appearance,  coupled  with  the 
cool  aplomb  of  her  address,  impressing  him  disagree- 
ably. 

"  I  do  really  believe  that  she  is  tbe  taller  of  the 
two,  now  that  they  stand  together,"  says  Lady 
Bramshill,  with  a  slight  chuckle.  "  If  all  trades  fail, 
Lucy,  we  shall  really  be  able  to  furnish  out  a  travel- 
ing caravan  with  our  own  two  families — Harry  and 

Euphemia  the  giants,  I  the  fat  woman,  the  judge "/ 

Her  imagination  fails  to  provide  the  judge  with 
a  suitable  function  in  her  proposed  enterprise,  and 
she  runs  into  another  subject  :  "But  I  am  not 
going  to  let  you  off  so  easily  about  your  never  having 
been  near  us  all  this  while.  You  cannot  plead  pre- 
engagement.  Nobody  ever  has  an  engagement,  pre 
or  not  pre,  in  St.  Gratian.  There  is  never  anything 
to  do  except  g6  to  church, — those  perpetual  church 
bells  would  drive  me  cracked, — and  even  you  can't 
have  been  in  church  all  day." 

"I  waited  till  I  could  bring  Harry,"  replies  Mrs. 
Clarence,  with  a  slight  glance,  in  which  the  pride, 
though  a  good  deal  more  covert  than  the  other 


V6  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

mother's,  is  to  the  full  as  deep,  at  her  son  ;  "  and  he 
has  been  away  in  Eastshire." 

"But  you  might  have  come  first  without  him, and 
then  with  him." 

This  is  undeniable,  and  the  visitor,  never  very  glib 
in  polite  inventions,  is  nonplused. 

The  conversation,  such  as  it  is,  has  so  far  lain 
wholly  with  the  elders  ;  the  younger  now  take  it  up. 

Upon  her  mother's  assertion  of  her  superior  stature, 
Euphemia  has  subsided  again  hastily  into  her  ham- 
mock, as  if  resolved  to  avoid  any  putting  it  to  the 
proof,  and  reclines  there  with  a  silent  indifference  to 
his  presence  which  the  young  man  is  not  slow  to 
characterize  to  himself  as  "  bad  form." 

The  mention  of  Eastshire  seems  to  give  a  slight 
fillip  to  her  attention. 

"  You  have  been  in  Eastshire  ?"  she  says. 

«  Yes." 

"In  what  part?" 

The  idea — a  captious  one — occurs  to  him  that  the 
part  of  the  county  visited  by  him  is  no  concern  of 
hers,  but  he  answers  : 

"  Near  Norton  Regis." 

"Near  Norton  Regis?"  repeats  she.  "Then  it 
must  be  the  same  neighborhood.  Did  you  happen  to 
hear  of  a  little  place  called  Briarly  Cottage  ?  " 

"  I  not  only  heard  of  it,  but  it  was  there  that  I  was 
staying." 

"  You  do  not  say  so  !  "  cries  Euphemia,  with  a 
great  accession  of  liveliness  in  her  tone.  "  With 
Mrs.  Bevis — Honor  Lisle's  Mrs.  Bevis?  How  often 
I  have  heard  of  Mrs.  Bevis,  and  of  the  joys  and 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  77 

glories  of  Briarly  Cottage  !  And  was  Honor  there  ? 
She  stays  there  so  much." 

"  Yes,  she  was  there." 

Involuntarily  he  lowers  his  voice  a  little,  and  his 
blue  eye  shoots  an  apprehensive  beam  toward  his 
mother.  It  is  possible  that  no  harm  is  yet  done,  as 
the  elder  pair  have,  within  the  last  moment  or  two, 
drawn  something  further  off,  since  Lady  Bramshill 
has  officiously  insisted  on  her  friend's  transferring 
herself  from  the  chair  on  which  she  had  been  sitting 
in  quiet,  cool  grace  to  another,  pronounced  to  be  a 
more  comfortable  one. 

In  the  little  bustle  consequent  on  this  move  Mrs. 
Clarence  may  very  likely  not  have  heard.  She  gives 
no  sign  of  having  done  so.  But  this  prop  is  soon 
knocked  from  under  him. 

"  Do  you  hear,  mother  ?  Mr.  Clarence  has  been 
staying  in  the  house  with  Honor  Lisle  !  Oh,  mother, 
dear  !  " — in  a  tone  of  not  very  patient  remonstrance — 
"  why  will  not  you  let  people  enjoy  themselves  in 
their  own  way  ?  Mrs.  Clarence  liked  the  other  chair 
best,  or  she  would  not  have  chosen  it." 

"I  was  afraid  of  the  legs.  You  know  it  came 
down  with  Adolphus  yesterday,"  replies  Lady  Brams- 
hill mildly  ;  and  her  daughter  goes  on  : 

"  Isn't  it  a  curious  coincidence  that  Mr.  Clarence 
should  have  been  staying  in  the  house  with  Honor 
Lisle  ?  You  do  not  see  the  coincidence  ?  Why, 
Honor  Lisle  is  the  odd  girl  who  was  at  school  with 
me,  about  whom  I  have  so  often  talked  to  you." 

The  murder  is  out  now  ;  the  name  and  the  fact 
have  both  been  pronounced  with  an  unmistakable 


78  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS? 

bell-clearness,  and  he  sees  their  instantaneous  effect 
in  a  to  all  but  him  invisible  start,  and  a  slight,  but 
hurt  and  frightened,  flush  hardly  perceptibly  staining 
his  mother's  cheek. 

"The  world  is  ridiculously  small,"  replies  Lady 
Bramshill,  with  that  trite  formula  which  so  many  of 
us,  who  ought  to  know  better,  habitually  employ. 
"  We  never  go  anywhere  that  we  do  not  knock  up 
against  someone  whom  we  knew  in  India."  Then, 
since  her  friend  does  not  take  up  this  brilliant 
generalization,  she  goes  on  :  "I  dare  say  you  are 
wondering  how  we  could  have  sent  our  only  girl  to 
school, — my  father  had  a  horror  of  girls'  schools, — but, 
you  see,  it  could  not  be  helped.  We  had  to  keep 
her  here.  She  was  with  us  in  Bengal  for  only  our 
last  year.  Really,  considering  what  perfect  strangers 
we  were  when  we  met,  it  is  a  wonder  that  we  get  on 
as  well  as  we  do." 

She  ends  with  a  laugh  of  such  perfect  satisfaction 
as  shows  how  little  she  sees  to  condemn  in  her 
daughter's  manners. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  murder  is  out ;  and  that  it  should  be  so 
through  the  agency  of  the  long  white  impertinence 
in  the  hammock  does  not  increase  Clarence's  fondness 
for  her.  But  it  must  be  confessed  that  it  heightens 
his  interest  in  her.  He  has  also  apparently  very 
greatly  heightened  her  interest  in  him. 

"  Do  tell  me  about  Honor,"  she  says,  in  a  key  of 
such  unfeigned  animation  as  warms  his  heart  to  her 
for  a  second,  only  to  be  cooled  to  freezing  point  the 
next,  when  to  her  question  she  adds,  with  thought- 
ful slanginess  :  "  She  was  about  as  mad  as  they 
make  'em." 

Lives  there  a  man  with  soul  so  dead  as  to  be  able 
to  hear  that  the  object  of  his  heart's  high  worship  is 
"as  mad  as  they  make  'em"  without  wincing?  If 
there  be,  Clarence  is  not  he. 

"  As  mad  as  they  make  'emf"  repeats  he,  redden- 
ing, as  he  feels,  with  displeasure  at  the  expression. 

"  I  do  not  mean  that  there  was  the  least  bit  of 
harm  in  her,"  rejoins  Euphemia,  noting,  with  some 
inward  amusement,  the  effect  produced  by  her  words, 
and  proceeding,  but  without  haste,  to  correct  the 
impression  made.  "  She  was  an  innocent  sort  of 
creature  ;  but  she  was  mad — at  least,  she  was  like  a 
very  nice  sort  of  savage." 

"I  think" — with  excessive  dryness — "that  we 
cannot  be  speaking  of  the  same  person." 

79 


80  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

"  Oh,  yes,  we  are  !  There  are  not  two  Honor  Lisles 
who  go  to  stay  with  two  Mrs.  Bevises,  and  who 
break  in  horses  for  them." 

"  The  lady  whom  I  met  broke  in  no  horses." 

"No,  of  course,  she  would  not  have  time  at  this 
season  of  the  year,  because  they  must  be  busy  with 
the  harvest.  Honor  used  always  to  go  to  Mrs.  Bevis 
for  corn  harvest.  They  seem  to  get  it  in  themselves. 
It  sounds  so  primeval !  I  wish  they  would  invite 
me." 

Once  again  Clarence  turns  a  quick  look  of  distress 
and  new  apprehension  toward  his  mother,  with  a 
painful  recollection  of  her  misunderstanding  of  his 
statement  as  to  Mrs.  Bevis'  assistant  harvester,  and 
of  his  own  relieved  acquiescence  in  her  remaining  in 
error.  That  this  should  be  the  mode  of  her  enlighten- 
ment— a  mode  of  all  others  most  calculated  to  excite 
her  fears  and  give  her  a  hurt  sense  of  his  duplicity — 
annoys  him  inexpressibly.  He  cannot  see  her  face? 
as  it  is  turned  toward  Lady  Bramshill,  one  of  whose 
well-meant  attempts  to  upset  the  scheme  of  her 
neighbors'  lives  and  alter  their  details  she  is  at  the 
moment  engaged  in  baffling.  The  effort,  in  this  case, 
is  directed  toward  making  Mrs.  Clarence  abandon  all 
her  tradesmen.  The  chief  battery  is  directed  against 
the  butcher,  whose  birthright  and  blessing  she  is 
with  ardor  laboring  to  take  away,  and  supplant  him 
by  a  protege  of  her  own. 

"He  sent  me  his  list, — prices  literally  wholesale, — 
so  I  went  to  him  at  once,  and  have  never  left  him  ; 
the  best  joints  exactly  half  what  they  charge  here — 
what,  I  have  no  doubt,  Joddrell  is  charging  you  ;  and 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  81 

though  his  shop  is  at  Smithfiekl,  he  executes,  carriage 
free,  any  order  exceeding  five  pounds.  It  would  be 
quite  worth  your  while  to  go  to  him.  Do  not  you 
think  so  ?  Do  not  you  think  that  being  able  to  get 
rid  of  the  middleman  is  worth  anything  ?  " 

"Oh,  yes,  worth  anything  !  "  faintly  ;  and  her  son 
knows  that  she  has  heard. 

"  I  am  afraid  the  young  lady  is  having  a  very  dull 
time!"  says  Lady  Bramshill,  disappointed  at  the 
want  of  enthusiasm  manifested  by  her  contemporary, 
and  turning  the  hose  of  her  officious  benevolence  on 
a  fresh  object.  "I  am  afraid  that  I  did  not  quite 
catch  your  name,  my  dear  Miss — Dent  ?  Oh,  thanks  ! 
Stupid  of  me  !  Now,  what  can  we  do  for  you  ? 
Quite  happy  as  you  are  ?  Oh,  but  it  is  so  dull  for 
you  !  Now,  if  the  boys  were  here !  Where  are 
those  boys  ?  Ah,  there  is  Adolphus  ! — at  least,  he 
must  be  near,  because  here  is  Nipper,"  as  a  wire- 
haired  terrier  squeezes  himself  through  some  rhodo- 
dendrons, expressly  to  tell  the  visitors,  in  volleyed 
barks,  that  he  "  has  no  use  for  them."  "  You  may 
be  quite  sure  if  you  see  one  that  the  other  is  not  far 
off.  Doll,  Doll  !  " 

There  is  a  stirring  among  the  bushes,  but  no 
further  sigh  of  compliance.  It  is  but  too  apparent 
that  Adolphus  is  making  off  in  an  opposite  direction. 
It  will  require  a  stronger  spell  than  his  parent's  to 
raise  him.  That  stronger  spell  is  not  long  wanting. 

"Doll!"  cries  a  commanding  young  voice  from 
the  hammock,  "  why  do  not  you  come  when  you  are 
called  ?  Come  here  this  moment!  " 

The  order  needs  not  to  be  twice   uttered.     In  im- 


82  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

mediate  obedience  to  it  the  brandies  part  and  dis- 
close the  skulking  youth,  who  now  advances  with 
less  shame  than  his  too  evident  effort  to  avoid  them 
ought  to  have  produced,  and  is  presented  to  the 
company,  from  among  whom  he  presently  leads  off 
the  delighted  Abigail  kitchen-garden  and  plumward. 

Clarence  looks  longingly  after  them,  with  no  plum 
hunger  indeed,  but  with  an  ardent  desire  to  get  out 
of  earshot  of  his  mother.  Euphemia,  however,  is 
otherwise  minded. 

"  I  think  we  will  not  follow  their  example,"  she 
says  luxuriously;  "  they  are  young  and  foolish,  and 
do  not  know  when  they  are  well  off.  But  do  tell 
me  more  about  Honor.  Is  she  as  eccentric  as  she 
used  to  be  ?  " 

"  It  depends  " — cavilingly — "  upon  what  you  call 
eccentric." 

"  I  think  " — laughing — "that  there  is  not  a  possi- 
ble definition  of  the  word  that  would  not  include 
her." 

He  is  too  much  annoyed  to  ask  for  an  explanation, 
earnestly  as  he  desires  one;  but,  happily  for  him, 
Miss  Bramshill  needs  no  urging  to  enlarge  upon  the 
theme. 

"  She  was,  as  I  say,  like  a  very  nice  savage.  She 
could  not  bear  being  indoors,  and  would  far  rather 
have  slept  under  a  hedge  or  a  haystack  than  in  bed. 
She  liked  all  sorts  of  little  wild  beasts  and  birds  far 
better  than  people,  and  she  never  voluntarily  opened 
a  book." 

The  picture,  overcharged  as  it  now  is,  has  still 
enough  features  of  resemblance  to  the  original,  as  he 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  83 

knows  her,  to  give  such  liveliness  of  interest  to  his 
listening  that  the  narrator  goes  on: 

"She  never  could  learn  anything — or,  rather,  I 
suppose,  she  never  would.  During  the  whole  two 
years  I  knew  her  she  was  always  more  or  less  in  dis- 
grace— generally  more.  But  really,  poor  soul!  con- 
sidering the  bad  race  she  comes  of,  and  the  execrable 
surroundings  she  had  always  had  at  home,  I  think 
that  there  was  wonderfully  little  harm  in  her." 

Again  Harry  is  acutely  conscious  that  he  is  not  the 
only  listener.  To  his  chafed  sense  it  seems  that  the 
pauses  in  the  talk  of  the  two  elder  ladies  always  ma- 
levolently coincides  with  the  narration  by  Euphemia 
of  some  fact  that  he  would  specially  wish  his  mother 
not  to  hear.  Is  it  his  fancy  that  it  is  only  by  an  effort 
she  is  keeping  up  her  gentle  answers  to,  and  mild 
parrying  of,  Lady  Bramshill's  fervidly  friendly  en- 
deavors to  induce  her  to  upset  her  whole  scheme  of 
life  and  remodel  it  on  a  new  pattern  ? 

"It  is  such  a  sinful  waste!  "  she  is  saying  warmly. 
"You  are  so  fitted  to  shine.  I  will  ask  the  judge  if 
it  is  not  so;  and  I  know  no  one  whose  opinion,  when 
it  is  not  Avarped  by  his  prejudices,  is  better  worth 
having.  I  am  sure  that  on  this  question  I  shall  have 
him  upon  rny  side." 

"  Will  you  ?  "  very  absently. 

"  If  you  take  the  house  I  mention, — of  course,  it  is 
not  quite  up  to  your  requirements  yet,  but  the  judge 
would  be  only  too  glad  to  build  on  to  it  for  the  sake 
of  securing  you  as  neighbors, — we  should  be  even 
iiearer  each  other  than  we  were  at  poor  old  Green 
Leigh,  and  you  would  have  the  benefit  of  whatever 


84 

society  we  see;  and  I  must  say  there  is  generally  a 
dribble  of  people  of  one  sort  or  another  through  the 
house.  And  we  mean  to  have  Saturdays  to  Mon- 
days as  a  regular  thing." 

This  is  not  a  question,  so  the  distraite  supposed 
listener,  whose  listening  to  another  dialogue  is  not 
supposed,  apparently  thinks  no  answer  is  required, 
for  she  gives  none,  and  her  silence  quells  for  a  minute 
or  two  her  friend's  loquacity. 

It  is  in  this  interval  that  Euphemia  resumes: 

"Honor  must  be  nineteen  now.  She  is  a  year 
older  than  I  am.  Has  she  turned  out  a  beauty  ? 
They  used  to  laugh  at  me,  but  I  always  thought  it 
was  upon  the  cards  that  she  would.  She  had  such 
undeniable  'points.'  Has  she  grown  up  pretty?" 

There  is  a  tiny  pause,  the  hum  of  the  happy  little 
winged  peoples  that  occupy  the  summer  air  seeming 
to  emphasize,  to  his  ears,  the  eagerly  attentive  silence 
of  one  of  the  human  listeners. 

"  I  do  not  think  I  am  much  of  a  judge,"  he  begins 
weakly.  Then,  with  a  sudden  hot  scorn  of  what 
looks  like  a  shirking  of  a  confession  of  the  faith 
for  which  he  would  so  gladly  die,  he  burns  his  ships, 
adding  emphatically  :  "  But,  yes,  she  is  pretty — ex- 
traordinarily pretty  !  " 

"  Extraordinarily  !  "  repeats  Euphemia,  lifting  her 
eyebrows.  "  Well,  that  is  more  than  I  should  have 
expected.  There  are  so  few  people  who  are  extraor- 
diiHtrily  pretty." 

"  Who  is  extraordinarily  pretty  ?  "  asked  Lady 
Bramshill,  beginning  to  discover  that  her  social 
baits,  her  attempts  to  revive  Green  Leigh  associa- 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  85 

tions,  and  her  exertions  for  the  bettering  of  Mrs. 
Clarence's  lot,  are  all  falling  on  deaf  ears.  "  You 
excite  our  curiosity — do  not  they,  Lucy  ?  Who  is 
extraordinarily  pretty  ?  " 

"  Honor  Lisle  !  at  least,  so  Mr.  Clarence  says," 
with  a  faint  coloring  of  doubt. 

"Honor  Lisle!  Honor  Lisle  still  !  We  are  get- 
ting quite  tired  of  Honor  Lisle  !  " 

"  Well,  if  you  do  not  like  our  conversation,  we 
will  relieve  you  of  it,"  cries  Euphemia  gayly,  spring- 
ing out  of  her  hammock.  "  Come,  Mr.  Clarence  ; 
they  are  not  worthy  of  our  theme.  We  will  pursue 
it  in  peace  among  the  peaches." 

He  obeys  her  only  too  gladly,  the  irksomeness  of 
the  situation  beginning  to  grow  unbearable  to  him. 

"  What  a  fine,  strapping  couple  they  are  !  "  cries 
Lady  Bramshill  admiringly,  watching  the  retreating 
figures.  A  few  hours  ago  the  expression  would  have 
grated  on  Mrs.  Clarence's  ear  ;  now  she  hears  it  with 
indifference.  It  is  not  with  the  blonde  giantess  who 
is  leading  him  off  that  her  own  doom  lies.  "  Do  you 
expect  to  keep  him  long  with  you  this  time  ?  " 

Mrs.  Clarence  starts.  Her  mind  is  so  occupied 
by  the  dreadful  fear  that  has  stormed  into  it,  mem- 
ory and  intelligence  are  so  absorbed  in  piecing  to- 
gether the  scraps  of  ominous  information  she  has 
overheard,  that  the  harmless  question  put  to  her  gains 
a  sinister  and  quite  unintended  meaning. 

"  Keep  him  with  me  ! "  she  repeats  vaguely. 

"  Yes.  I  mean,  will  he  spend  most  of  the  vacation 
with  you  ?  " 

"  Ho  is  thinking  of  taking  me  a  little  trip  abroad — 


86  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

at  least  " — with  an  inward  pang  at  the  idea  of  a  pos- 
sible, nay,  probable,  change  of  plan — "  at  least,  he 
was." 

"  What  sort  of  a  traveler  are  you  ?  Somehow  I 
cannot  fancy  you  much  of  a  traveler.  I  feel  sure 
that  you  are  the  sort  of  person  wrho  always  takes  her 
own  sheets  and  pillow-cases  with  her." 

"  I  do  not  think  I  am  a  very  bad  one  !  "  with  a 
small  and  depressed  attempt  at  self-assertion.  "  I 
am  always  ready  in  time,  and  I  do  not  make  much 
fuss.  Harry  has  never  complained  of  me." 

"  Do  you  take  a  maid  ?" 

"  No." 

"  You  dress  your  own  hair  ?  " 

"  Yes.  It  does  not  need  much  dressing  ;  it  is  only 
twisted.  I  do  it  myself,  and  if  I  am  very  tired  Harry 
does  it  for  me." 

Another  sharper  pang  at  the  thought  that  in  the 
near  future — so  quickly  have  her  fears  sprung  to 
meet  the  coming  evil — she  will  have  to  forego  these 
tender  ministrations. 

"  Why,  he  is  son  and  daughter  in  one  to  you  !  " 
cries  her  friend,  with  rough  good-nature. 

"  Yes  ;  he  is  everything  in  the  world  to  me  !" 

It  is  with  a  sort  of  melancholy  superstition  that 
she  makes  this  statement ;  a  kind  of  dim  hope  that, 
by  putting  before  the  unseen  powers  her  utter  naked- 
ness of  all  comfort  and  help  save  what  lies  in  her 
son,  they  may  avert  or  suspend  the  blow  that  is 
threatening  her. 

When  the  spread  tea-table  and  the  claret-cup  re- 
unite the  party,  Harry  sees,  by  the  plaintive  on-one- 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  87 

sidedness  of  his  mother's  head  and  the  extreme 
smallness  of  her  voice — never  a  very  large  one — how 
little  enjoyment  she  is  deriving  from  the  outing.  It 
is  late,  however, — nearing  dinner-time,  from  stay  ing  to 
which  meal  only  the  most  direct  statement  that  they 
had  rather  not  on  the  part  of  Harry  hap  saved  them, — 
when  they  are  allowed  to  re-enter  their  fly.  Per- 
sonally, he  would  have  preferred  to  stay  in  the  cool, 
wide  country  spaces  rather  than  re-enter  the  strait 
and  sultry  town,  to  defer  the  dreaded  hour  of  the 
now  unavoidable  explanation — inevitable,  thanks  to 
his  own  clumsy  and  needless  dissembling. 

Nor  can  Abigail  quite  conceal  her  regret  at  being 
reft  from  the  society  of  the  now  tamed  and  warmly 
intimate  Adolphus,  who  has  gone  far  to  reconcile  her 
to  the  rural  scenes  which  she  so  cordially  detests. 
But  the  tense  weariness  of  his  mother's  whole  air, 
honestly  as  she  tries  to  hide  it,  warns  the  son,  who 
all  his  life  has  so  lovingly  studied  the  weather-glass 
of  her  looks,  to  resist  the  blandishments  of  the  host- 
ess. So  far  is  Mrs.  Clarence  from  having  any  share 
in  her  own  deliverance  that  she  steals  a  wistful  look 
for  direction  as  to  the  form  of  response  her  son 
would  wish  her  to  make  to  the  bombardment  of 
affectionate  entreaties  and  bribes  with  which  Lady 
Bramshill  is  cannonading  her.  It  is  a  look  which 
does  not  escape  Miss  Euphemia. 

"  He  has  got  his  womankind  in  rare  good  order," 
she  says,  as  they  stand  on  the  damp-growing  sward 
watching  the  guests'  departure.  "Did  you  see  the 
piteous  looks  that  they  turned  upon  him  for  orders  as 
to  what  course  he  wished  them  to  take  about  your 


88  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

invitation  ?  I  must  say  I  sympathized  with  him  in 
his  determination  not  to  stay — brutally  as  lie 
expressed  it — and  dine  in  his  morning  clothes  this 
weather.  But  oh,  mother,  how  could  you  have  said 
that  the  boys  would  supply  him  with  dress  clothes  ? 
What  is  there  in  the  wardrobe  of  all  those  dear  little 
pygmies  that  could  be- stretched  to  cover  the  area  of 
that  gigantic  prig  ?  " 

"Is  he  a  prig?"  asks  Lady  Bramshill  regretfully, 
but  with  interest.  "  I  am  sorry  to  hear  you  say  so. 
Do  you  really  think  that  lie  is  a  prig  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  think  about  it ;  I  know  that  he  is." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  it." 

"You  need  not  be  sorry;  there  are  worse  things. 
And  I  fancy  he  is  a  good  prig  ;  not,  indeed,  that  I 
ever  heard  of  a  bad  prig.  It  is  the  consciousness  of 
overwhelming  virtue,  I  suppose,  that  makes  a  man 
one." 

There  is  a  distinct  though  not  very  acute  asperity 
in  the  tone  of  these  remarks  which  prompts  the  good- 
natured  mother  to  take  up  the  cudgels,  but  with 
moderation,  in  defense  of  the  absent. 

"  I  hardly  spoke  to  him,  so,  of  course,  you  are  a 
much  better  judge  than  I  ;  but  I  liked  his  manner  to 
his  mother — so  deferential." 

"  H'm  !  I  should  have  said  that  the  deference  was 
more  on  her  side  ;  but,  yes,  I  think  he  is  nice  to  her." 

"How  did  he  show  his  priggishness  ?  " 

"  How  does  an  Ethiopian  show  his  skin  or  a  leopard 
his  spots?  " 

Lady  Bramshill  having  no  satisfactory  answer  to 
this  posing  question,  the  subject  drops.  Meanwhile, 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  89 

the  visitors  are  passing  their  return  comments  upon 
their  entertainers. 

"  I  shall  never  say  a  word  against  the  country 
again,"  breathes  out  Abigail,  in  a  heartfelt  voice. 
"  Oh,  what  a  delightful  family  !  " 

Both  mother  and  son  laugh.  Seldom  has  the  fable 
of  the  gold  and  silver  shield  met  with  a  better  com- 
mentary. 

"And,  oh,  what  order  Miss  Euphemia  keeps  her 
boys  in  !  Adolphus  was  so  surprised,  almost  shocked, 
when  I  offered  to  carry  his  clubs  to  the  golf-ground 
because  he  could  not  find  his  caddy.  I  told  him  " — 
ruefully — "  that  my  boys  always  make  me  carry 
everything." 

"  I  do  not  think  I  see  Miss  Euphemia  carrying  any- 
body's clubs,"  replies  Harry.  "  She  is  such  a  very 
high  and  haughty  lady." 

The  obviously  deficient  admiration  which  pierces 
the  quasi-playfulness  of  his  tone  hits  his  mother's 
ear.  It  strikes  her  that  it  was  Miss  Bramshill's  little 
respectful  manner  of  alluding  to  the  "  unknown 
beloved  "  which  has  set  her  in  Harry's  black  books. 
With  simple  subtlety  she  approaches  the  subject,  her 
heart  beating  timorously,  under  cover,  as  she  thinks, 
of  an  apparently  careless  question. 

"  Did  you  not  like  her  manner  ?  I  feel  sure  it  is 
only  manner  ;  but  it  struck  me  that  you  did  not  much 
admire  her  tone  in  speaking  of  that  schoolmate  of 
hers." 

For  a  moment  the  young  man  is  taken  aback  at  the 
lamb  thus  suddenly  seizing  the  bull  by  the  horns.  It 
has  never  occurred  to  him  as  possible  that  his  mother 


90  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

would  broach  the  subject  (which  will  uo\v,  thanks  to 
the  detestable  Euphemia,  have  to  be  broached)  before 
a  third  person.  He  has  been  bracing  his  mind  for  a 
tete-d-tete  contest  some  hours  distant,  and  now  the 
enemy — poor  fond  enemy  ! — has  sprung  upon  him  in 
public.  A  moment's  reflection  shows  him  the  advan- 
tage that  treating  the  burning  theme  in  the  necessarily 
cooling  and  restraining  presence  of  his  young  cousin 
will  give  him,  so  he  answers  as  disengagedly  as  he 
finds  possible  : 

"  You  mean  the  lady  whom  I  met  at  Mrs.  Bevis'  ?  " 

"Yes  ;  you  know  it  was  the  first  time  I  heard  of 
her.  You  did  not  mention — you  forgot,  no  doubt,  to 
mention — that  there  was  another  lady  there  besides 
your  hostess." 

"  Did  I  ?  I  am  almost  sure  that  I  told  you  she 
had  a  friend  who  always  came  to  help  her  with  her 
harvesting." 

"  Yes,  you  did  ;  but  I  understood  it  was  a 
man." 

"  A  man  ! "  laughing  almost  too  naturally. 
"  What  an  absurd  mistake  !  No,  it  was  Miss  Lisle. 
How  amused  she  will  be  !  I  must  tell  her  when  next 
we  meet." 

He  adds  this  last  clause  advisedly,  and  casts  a 
hastily  anxious  glance  at  his  mother,  whose  eye  he 
has  hitherto  been  avoiding,  to  see  what  effect  the 
suggestion  of  a  possible  renewal  of  acquaintance 
witli  the  unknown  object  of  the  terror  he  so  truly 
and  ruefully  divines  may  have  upon  her.  But  the 
shaft  misses  its  aim.  She  is  too  preoccupied  to  make 
her  next  question  look  as  artless  as  she  can  to  heed  a 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  91 

hint  which  at  another  time  would  have  made  her 
shiver  with  apprehension. 

"  Is  she — this  Miss  Lisle  " — there  is  a  sort  of  invol- 
untary protest  in  her  way  of  syllabling  the  name — 
"as — as  eccentric  as  Miss  Bramshill  represented 
her  ?  " 

"  Eccentric  !  "  lie  repeats  dissatisfiedly  ;  "  what  is 
it  to  be  eccentric  ?  I  suppose  each  one  of  us  must 
resign  himself  to  be  pelted  with  the  brickbats  and 
rotten  eggs  of  ugly  words,  if  we  dare  to  swerve  a 
hair's-breadth  from  the  dusty  highroad  of  con- 
vention." 

His  manner  expresses  so  much  indignation,  the 
tirade  is  so  unnecessarily  violent  in  proportion  to  the 
epithet  that  has  called  it  forth,  that  her  heart  sinks. 
He  has  never  run  a  tilt  against  convention  before. 
Is  not  she  herself  eminently  conventional? 

"I  do  not  think  'eccentric'  is  a  very  ugly  name, 
is  it  ? "  she  says  gently.  "  What  I  meant  to  ask 
was, — only  no  doubt  I  worded  it  stupidly, — does  she 
really  break  in  horses  and  sleep  under  hedges  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  ridiculous  exaggeration  !  " — still  with  that 
needless  heat — "  an  absurd  misrepresentation  !  She 
never  slept  under  a  hedge  in  her  life,  and  Miss 
Euphemia  has  no  business  to  make  such  groundless 
accusations." 

"  It  would  have  been  no  very  great  crime  if  she 
had  slept  under  a  hedge." 

The  mildness  of  her  tone  and  the  leniency  of  the 
sentiment  touch  him. 

"Eccentric  or  not  eccentric,  I  am  sure  that  you 
would  like  her —at  least,  it  would  be  very  odd  and 


92  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

unnatural  if  you  did  not,  since  she  is  strangely  like 
you  in  appearance." 

"  Like  me  in  appearance  ?  and  she  breaks  in  horses 
and  sleeps  under  haystacks  !  " 

"I  do  not  say  that  she  is  like  you  in  tastes  and 
habits  ;  but  she  is  curiously  like  you  in  looks — the 
same  arch  of  the  head,  the  same  cut  of  the  orbits  of 
the  eyes,  the  same  coloring." 

"  How  very  curious  !  "  faintly. 

"Oddly  enough,  she  has  even  something  of  the 
same  quality  of  voice." 

"Indeed!" 

"But,"  laughing  uneasily,  "she  never  puts  her 
head  on  one  side  when  the  world  weighs  heavy  upon 
her." 

Mrs.  Clarence  is  conscious  that  at  the  present 
moment  her  head  is  at  the  angle  indicated,  and  she 
restores  it  to  the  perpendicular. 

"Is  the  world  weighing  heavy  upon  you  just 
now  ?  "  he  asks  rallyingly,  yet  caressingly.  "  I  do  not 
know  why  it  should." 

"Why  do  you  think  it  does?"  she  asks,  trying  to 
catch  his  tone.  "I  suppose  I  am  a  little  tired  ;  you 
know  gayety  is  always  a  little  tiring  to  a  person 
habitually  not  gay,  and  we  have  been  so  dissipated." 

"  Yes,  haven't  we  ?  "  echoes  Abigail,  with  a  long 
sigh  of  retrospective  enjoyment.  "  What  a  delightful 
afternoon  we  have  had  !  and  here  is  the  dear  town 
beginning  again  ;  but  I  really  am  not  nearly  so  glad  to 
see  it  again  as  I  expected  I  should  be.  There  is  a  good 
deal  to  be  said  for  the  country — some  country,  that 
is — after  all.  Is  it  possible," — looking  eagerly  ahead, 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  93 

and  with  a  brief  revival  of  her  urban  interests, — "  that 
those  are  the  Linley  children  whom  we  are  going  to 
pass  ?  They  surely  cannot  keep  the  baby  out  as  late 
as  this  ?  But  it  is  they — the  imbecile  and  all  in  his 
go-cart ! " 

Both  her  companions  are  relieved  by  her  babble, 
and  the  conversation  is  sedulously  kept  to  the  Linley 
family,  about  whom  Abigail's  information  is  as  varied 
as  it  is  precise,  until  they  reach  their  own  door. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  first  dip  into  the  cold  water  has  been  taken. 
The  bugles  have  sounded  the  charge,  but  the  battle 
has  not  really  been  engaged.  The  ice  has,  however, 
at  least  been  broken.  Thanks,  as  he  feels  with  re- 
gret, to  no  timely  candor  of  his  own,  the  fact  he  has 
been  too  lacking  in  moral  courage  to  impart  is  in  his 
mother's  possession.  He  will,  with  his  own  good  will, 
not  again  approach  the  subject  for  some  da37s, — not 
until  it  has  had  time  to  lose  its  first  rough  edge  of 
unwelcome  strangeness, — and  meanwhile,  by  subtle 
allusions  and  sidelights  attractively  thrown,  he  will 
awake  her  interest  and  disarm  her  prejudices. 

To  do  the  latter  is,  as  he  is  aware,  no  easy  task. 
The  whole  shape  and  frame  of  her  shut-in  life  have 
tended  to  intensify  them.  In  that  deep  and  narrow 
heart,  if  the  impressions  made  are  few,  they  are 
fathomlessly  profound.  Yet  he  would  not  be  a  lover 
if  all  his  misgiving's  were  not  bottomed  bv  a  convic- 

o  o  * 

tion  that,  if  his  enchanting  love  could  but  plead  her 
own  cause  by  her  mere  presence,  the  victory  would 
be  won  ;  that  under  all  the  differences  so  promi- 
nently brought  out  by  Euphemia,  the  two  rulers  of 
his  heart  would  recognize  their  essential  likeness  to 
each  other.  But  the  millennium  is  not  an  event 
which  any  of  us  looks  out  for  to-morrow  ;  and  to 
effect  his  purpose  of  drawing  together  the  two  lives 

94 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  95 

so  essential  to  him,  lie  must  have  time — plenty  of 
time.  Time  is  just  what  one  of  the  essentials  seems 
determined  to  deny  him.  It  would  not  be  she  if  she 
assaulted  him  by  direct  attack.  Her  mild  and  cir- 
cuitous advances  would  be  recognized  as  such  only  by 
one  who  knew  her  as  well  as  he. 

But  scarcely  has  Abigail,  happily  drowsy  after  the 
strong  wine  of  Doll  Bramsh ill's  commerce,  bid  a 
sleepy  good-night  and  shut  the  door,  before  Mrs. 
Clarence  has  begun  to  dig  her  trenches.  And  yet  he 
does  his  hasty  best  to  take  the  direction  of  the  talk 
into  his  own  hands. 

They  are  in  his  study  and  smoking  room — a  room 
less  cramped  than  the  narrow  exterior  of  the  house 
would  lead  one  to  expect — which.  "  gives  "  upon  a  slip 
of  garden,  and  whither  they  have  descended  for 
Harry  to  smoke.  He  is,  it  is  true,  at  full  liberty  to 
blow  his  clouds  as  freely  as  Zeus  all  over  the  house. 
Mrs.  Clarence  loves  the  smell  of  tobacco,  with  that 
strong  associated  love  so  much,  more  potent  than  any 
affection  called  out  by  the  real  merits  of  the  object 
itself, — because  it  is  connected  with  her  boy, — and 
which  has  made  countless  eyes  fond  of  the  ugly, 
countless  ears  fond  of  the  discordant,  countless  noses 
fond  of  the  unfragrant. 

"  She  is  a  dear  little  guest,"  says  Harry,  taking 
another  rose-leaf-tipped  cigarette  from  the  box  be- 
side him,  and  rushing  into  hasty  encomium  of  the 
departed  miss,  with  as  little  real  care  for  her  excel- 
lences as  it  is  possible  to  combine  with  such  an  empha- 
sis of  appreciation. 

"  Yes,  isn't  she  ?  so  full  of  tact.     I  dare  say  that 


96  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

she  saw  we  wanted  to  talk,  and  so  pretended  to  be 
tired." 

The  young  man  is  conscious  that  if  Miss  Dent  has 
discovered  any  such  anxiety  in  his  own  case,  she 
must  have  used  a  very  strong  magnifying  glass  ;  but 
he  only  says,  still  with  that  desperate  effort  to  keep 
to  Abigail  : 

"  I  only  wish  she  were  not  quite  so  civil  !  I  do 
not  wonder  at  Adolphus" — laughing — "being  shocked 
at  her  determination  to  fetch  and  carry  for  him.  Do 
you  notice  my  frantic  and  generally  unavailing  efforts 
to  hinder  her  waiting,  hand  and  foot,  upon  me  ?" 

"Yes,  she  is  most  obliging  ;  still,  I  am  glad  she  is 
gone.  When  one  wants  to  talk  really,  it  is  better  to 
do  so  unter  vier  augen" 

At  the  present  moment  Harry  would  much  prefer 
forty  eyes  to  the  four  upon  which  his  mother  con- 
gratulates herself,  but  he  only  says  : 

"  How  much  I  wish  that  you  smoked  !  Are  you 
sure  that  it  would  make  you  sick  ?  It  would  be  so 
much  more  companionable  !  " 

"  Do  ladies  generally  smoke  now  ? "  she  asks, 
marveling  at  her  own  subtlety.  "  I  mean,  have  you 
had  the  idea  put  into  your  head  lately  by  seeing  any 
smoking  ladies  ?" 

"I  have  no  reason  for  supposing  that  the  magnifi- 
cent Euphemia  smokes,  if  that  is  what  you  mean." 

It  is  not  in  the  least  what  she  has  meant,  of  which 
both  are  perfectly  aware  ;  but  this  unexpected  parry 
of  her  stroke  throws  her  back  to  her  starting  point.. 
Her  powers  of  invention  are  not  very  great,  and  it  is 
a  matter  of  two  or  three  minutes  before  she  sets 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  97 

another  snare  for  him,  although  it  wears  the  aspect 
of  a  rejoinder  to  his  last  remark  : 

"  Although  Lady  Bramshill  has  spoiled  her,  I  fancy 
that  she  has  been  nicely  brought  up." 

He  falls  into  the  trap. 

"  As  to  that,  I  think  that  a  good  many  girls  who. 
are  nicely  brought  up  smoke — cigarettes,  of  course — 
nowadays." 

There  is  a  slight  heat  in  his  tone,  which  tells  her 
what  she  wanted  to  know — in  addition  to  possessing 
the  tastes  of  a  tramp  and  a  jockey,  Honor  Lisle 
smokes  !  Another  silence,  scented  by  the  tobacco- 
flowers,  which — suitable  blossoms  ! — are  sending  in 
their  nightly  perfume  through  the  wide-open  French 
windows.  He  is  back  in  thought  in  the  red-hung 
tabagie  at  Briarly  Cottage,  recalling  the  little  shock — 
so  much  of  his  mother's  leaven  was  in  him — with 
which  on  the  first  night  of  her  revelation  to  him  he 
had  seen  Honor  sending  two  little  shafts  of  smoke 
through  her  delicate  nostrils  ;  recalling,  too,  his  sub- 
sequent perfect  reconcilement  to,  nay,  rapture  in,  the 
sight.  It  seems  to  him  that  all  the  most  characteristic 
self-revealing  things  she  had  ever  said  to  him  had 
come  through  a  light  veil  of  smoke — a  veil  which  had 

o  o 

emboldened  her  to  bare  the  harmless  secrets  of  her 
odd,  shy  heart  to  him.  But  to  his  mother  he  can 
never  explain  this.  It  must  be  by  some  other  side  of 
their  two  natures  that  he  must  try  to  draw  them 
together. 

"You  know  that  my  clock  is  alwa}Ts  twenty  years 
behind  anyone  else's,"  she  says,  and  her  remark 
steals  with  strangely  discordant  effect  into  his  reverie, 


98  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

considering  how  very  softly  it  is  made,  "but  I  never 
can  reconcile  myself  to  tlie  idea  of  a  woman  with  a 
pipe  in  her  month  !  " 

"  A  pipe!"  he  echoes,  horrified.  "Good  Heavens  ! 
I  should  think  not  !  You  will  not  find  anyone  to  dis- 
4 agree  with  you  there." 

"Shall  I  not?  I  did  not  quite  know  how  fast  the 
world  is  traveling,  its  speed  has  got  so  far  beyond 
me." 

Then,  with  a  pang  of  fear  lest  she  may  be  alienat- 
ing him,  freezing  up  some  coming  confidence  by  the 
touch  of  bitterness  in  her  tone,  she  adds  humbly  : 

"  I  know  that  I  am,  without  joking,  curiously 
behindhand  in  my  ideas.  I  do  wish  you  would  try 
to  make  me  a  little  more  what  they  call  '  up  to  date,' 
to  tell  me  what  really  nice  people — I  know  that  you 
have  lately  been  with  some  really  nice  people — think 
and  feel  and  do  in  these  kind  of  matters." 

Her  humility  touches  him,  coupled  with  her  obvious 
desire  to  conquer  all  her  deepest  repugnances  in  order 
to  meet  him  ;  touched,  too,  by  the  pathos  of  her 
transparent  stratagem,  the  little  incidental  compli- 
ment to  his  Eastshire  associates. 

"  I  have  no  wish  for  you  to  cut  yourself  upon  any- 
one else's  pattern,"  he  answers  half  lightly,  yet  with 
emotion  ;  "  you  do  well  enough  for  me  as  you  are  ; 
I  had  rather  see  other  people  " — with  an  involuntary 
lowering  of  his  voice — "try  to  cut  themselves  upon 
yours.  Yet," — conscious  of,  and  repudiating  the 
falseness  of  the  impression  conveyed  by  this  last 
clause, — "  it  would  make  but  a  botch  and  a  bungle, 
and,  so  that  there  is  likeness  and  sympathy  in  the 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  99 

main  things, — the  things  that  really  matter,  the  ever- 
lasting yea  and  the  everlasting  nay, — what  do  a  few 
differences  in  detail  signify  ?  " 

This  sentence  has  an  oracular  air,  or  would  have  if 
it  were  not  thrown  out  more  as  a  vague  reflection 
than  addressed  precisely  to  his  auditor.  Yet  it  seems 
to  her  so  evident  an  abandonment  of  his  fencing  off 
the  subject  that  she  takes  her  courage  in  both  hands, 
and  makes  her  first  direct  assault.  But  again  a  few 
minutes  elapse  before  the  battering-ram,  so  timidly 
handled,  is  in  working  gear, 

"  Was  the  lady  you  met  at  Briarly  Cottage,  and 
whom  I  so  unaccountably  mistook  for  a  man,  Miss 
Lisle  ?  How  does  she  spell  it,  L-i-s-1-e  or  L-y-l-e  ?  " 

"  L-i-s-1-e." 

"  Oh,  thanks  !  Is  she — I  was  going  to  ask  as  like 
me  in  herself  as  you  describe  her  to  be  in  person  ?" 

"  Not  on  first  acquaintance — not  on  the  surface  ; 
but,  in  the  essentials  that  go  to  make  up  the  basis  of 
character — the  rock  on  which  all  else  is  founded — she 
is  extremely  like  you.  In  the  first  place," — stroking 
one  of  the  little  white  hands,  that  lies  nervously 
opening  and  shutting  itself  on  her  lap, — "  she  is  very 
nearly  as  full  of  prejudices  as  you  are," — taking 
all  the  sting  out  of  the  word  by  stooping  to  kiss 
the  hand  over  which  his  own  had  been  lovingly 
passing. 

"  Am  I  prejudiced  ?  " 

But  he  is  too  absorbed  to  answer,  lifted  by  his 
theme  to  the  stars. 

"  And  in  mind  and  body  she  is  as  high  and  clean 
and  true." 


100  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

The  mother  turns  her  head  aside.  Is  it  because,  if 
his  words  had  not  done  so,  the  thrill  in  his  voice 
would  have  told  her  that  the  ax  has  fallen  ? 

"  The  Vaughans  have  evidently  let  their  house," 
announces  Abigail,  from  her  usual  watch-tower  at  the 
window  next  morning. 

"  Have  they  ?  " 

A  ten  days'  visit  from  Miss  Dent  has  perfected  her 
hostess,  or  she  thinks  so,  in  the  art  of  throwing  in 
apparently  coherent  expressions  of  assent  or  dissent 
to  propositions  of  which  she  has  not  heard  one  word. 

"  Yes.     I  see  a  footman  smoking  down  the  area." 

"  Do  you  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  think  where,  in  a  house  of  that  size,  they 
can  put  a  footman." 

"No?" 

The  tone  of  the  last  monosyllable  betrays  such  an 
apparent  inattention  that  the  girl  turns  her  head,  and 
sees  Mrs.  Clarence  puckering  vexed  brows  over  an 
open  note.  It  is  an  invitation — i\a,y  a  command, 
more  peremptory  than  any  predecessor — from  Lady 
Bramshill  to  repeat  the  visit  of  yesterday  on  a  larger 
scale  :  to  come  earlier  and  stay  later,  eat  and  drink 
more,  etc. 

In  the  present  state  of  her  spirits,  which,  indeed, 
always  need  tender  handling,  the  idea  of  another 
enormous  afternoon  exposed  to  the  kitchen  fire,  so  to 
speak,  of  her  friend's  large  assiduities,  with  no  cool 
springs  of  inward  comfort  to  refresh  her  spirit,  is 
intolerably  irksome  ;  and  yet 

"  You  would  like  to  go,  of  course,  dear  child  ?  " 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  101 

she  says  sweetly,  yet  a  little  mournfully.  "  So  you 
shall — so  we  will,  of  course.  I  am  afraid  we  can 
hardly  expect  Harry  to  sacrifice  himself  again.  Ah  ! 
here  he  comes.  We  will  hear  what  he  says." 

"  What  is  he  supposed  to  be  going  to  say?" 

In  answer,  she  puts  the  note  into  his  hand. 

"  Well," — giving  it  back  to  her, — "  is  there  any 
just  cause  or  impediment?" 

"  That  is  for  you  to  decide  " — unable  to  keep  a 
shade  of  surprise  out  of  her  voice.  "I  thought — I 
imagined " 

"  I  suppose  " — laughing — "  that  I  ought  to  give  the 
colossal  charms  of  Miss  Euphemia  another  chance  of 
vanquishing  me  ;  and  you  must  confess  that  this 
dear  little  town  does  not  afford  any  great  variety  of 
entertainments.  Have  you  any  alternative  to 
suggest  ?  " 

"  None." 

"  Then  we  will  certainly  go.  I  will  sit  at  the 
knees  of  Miss  Euphemia,  or  as  near  them  as  I  can 
reach  up,  and  Abigail  shall  complete  the  conquest  of 
Adolphus." 

"  You  may  laugh,  but  he  is  a  very  nice  boy." 

"  When  once  he  is  retrieved  from  the  bushes," 
rejoins  he  teasingly. 

His  mother  had  gone  docilely  to  her  bureau.  lie 
follows  her,  and  lays  his  hand  on  her  cool  gray 
shoulder. 

"  What  is  play  to  us  is  death  to  you,  dear.  Why 
should  you  sacrifice  yourself  ?  I  saw  the  extremity 
of  anguish  your  pleasuring  caused  you  yesterday. 
Why  risk  a  recurrence  ?  Stay  at  home,  and  go  to 


102  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

church  several  times.  Judging  by  the  din  of  your 
bells,  there  is  never  a  moment  when  there  is  not  a 
function  of  some  kind  or  other  going  on  in  one  or 
other  of  your  joss-houses." 

Her  pen  pauses,  and  she  lifts  a  doubtful  face,  half 
relieved,  half  hurt.  He  has  never  before  jeered  at 
her  church-going  propensities,  nor  has  he  ever 
before  proposed  to  forego  her  company  upon  any 
occasion  when  it  was  possible  for  him  to  enjoy  it. 
And  yet — to  be  let  off  ! 

Her  boy's  hand  is  still  on  her  shoulder. 

"  I  will  say  that  you  are  indisposed.  In  a  sense, 
Heaven  knows  it  is  Gospel  truth  !  " 

"  Had  you  really  rather  I  did  not  ?  " 

She  herself  could  not  say  whether  she  wishes  for 
"  Yes  "  or  "  No  "  to  this  last  question. 

"  Much  rather.  Do  you  know  that  I  do  not  think 
you  realize  how  miserable  you  look  when  you  are 
out  a-pleasuring." 

"  Do  I  ?  I  thought  I  had  hidden  my  feelings  so 
well." 

"  And  your  patient  misery  makes  me  miserable  ; 
so " 

"  So  I  am  to  be  left  at  home  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  you  are  to  be  let  off  your  gridiron  for  to- 
day. I  do  not  say  that  you  will  every  day." 

"  Every  day  !  Do  you  mean  to  go  to  The  Beeches 
every  day  ?  " 

"  God  forbid  !  I  mean,  every  day  that  we  are  to 
be  dragged  there." 

This  phrase  implies  reluctance,  but  her  surprised  ear 
tells  her  that  there  is  no  real  unwillingness.  Are  his 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  103 

and  her  thoughts  beginning  to  diverge  so  widely  that 
lie  is  glad  to  get  away  from  her  even  for  an  after- 
noon ? 

Now  that  she  has  acquiesced  in  his  arrangement, 
there  is  certainly  a  briskness  in  his  manner  which  was 
absent  at  breakfast. 

"I  will  keep  an  eye  upon  Adolphus  and  Abigail." 

"  And  Adolphus  and  Abigail  will  keep  an  eye  upon 
you  and  Euphemia,"  retorts  she,  delighted,  and 
launching  rosily  into  elemental  repartee. 

Neither  of  them  expresses  any  regret  at  Mrs. 
Clarence's  secession,  though  Abigail  fires  off  a  radiant 
parting  hope  that  she  will  not  be  too  dull  all  alone  at 
home,  as  they  trot  off  in  their  hansom — a  vehicle  for 
which,  since  they  are  only  two,  they  have  exchanged 
yesterday's  crawler. 

It  is  not  till  five  minutes  after  they  are  gone  that 
the  explanation  of  Harry's  readiness  to  go  dawns 
chilly  upon  his  mother's  mind.  To  Euphemia  Brams- 
hill,  though  otherwise  absolutely  without  charm  for 
him,  he  will  be  able  to  talk  of  Honor  Lisle  ! 

The  tone  she  may  take — the  tone  that  his  mother 
yesterday  heard  her  take — about  his  divinity  is  not 
such  as  to  content  or  do  otherwise  than  irritate  him  ; 
and  yet  he  had  rather  be  irritated  by  hearing  her 
unworthily  mentioned  than  do  without  hearing  her 
spoken  of  at  all. 

He  is  gone  to  The  Beeches  to  share  in  a  form  of 
festivity  which  he  has  always  spurned, — a  garden 
party, — and  to  accept  the  hospitality  of  a  family  for 
one  member  of  which  he  has  a  pronounced  distaste, 
solely  because  to  that  one  member  he  can  talk  of 


104  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

Honor  Lisle.  She  will  be  not  only  in  his  thoughts^ 
but  on  his  lips,  all  the  afternoon.  Here  at  least — as 
far  as  thoughts  go — she  and  her  boy  will  meet,  glad 
as  he  was  to  escape  her  ;  for  she  herself  thinks  of 
nothing  else  all  day — nothing  but  Honor  Lisle  ;  the 
girl  who  smokes,  and  breaks  in  horses,  and  sleeps 
under  haystacks  ;  who  can  have  none  of  the  instincts 
or  feelings  of  a  lady  ;  who  has  doubtless  taught  him 
that  new  sneer  at  the  religious  duties  which,  if  he  has 
not  practiced  them  very  rigidly  himself,  he  has  always 
reverenced  in  his  mother  :  Honor  Lisle,  in  whom — 
crudest  cut  of  all — Harry  imagines — she  is  very  sure 
that  it  can  exist  only  in  his  warped  fancy — a  likeness 
to  herself,  an  ironical  outside  likeness,  covering  such 
deep  dissimilitude. 

Like  or  unlike,  she  cannot  get  away  from  Honor 
Lisle.  Honor  Lisle  puts  on  her  bonnet  with  her, 
walks  downstairs  and  opens  the  street  door  with  her, 
passes  along  the  lifeless  street  with  her,  enters 
the  corbeled  and  gargoyled  western  door  of  St. 
Michael's  Church  with  her,  sits  on  the  next, prie-dieu 
to  her  through  the  intoned  and  chanted  evensong, 
makes  nonsense  of  her  prayers  and  a  mockery  of  her 
praises,  and,  finally,  insists  on  walking  home  with  her. 

Would  not  one  naturally  hate  a  person  who  pur- 
sued one  with  so  relentless  a  persecution  ?  The  pas- 
sion of  hatred  has  had  so  small  a  part  in  her  life  that 
she  scarcely  knows  or  can  recognize  its  aspect.  She 
is  only  heavily  conscious  that  all  day  long  something 
ugly  and  frightening  is  creeping  on  hands  and  knees 
into  her  heart.  It  has  so  long  to  do  it  in,  too,  for  the 
absentees  do  not  return  till  the  high-swinging  bells  in 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  105 

the  dusking  belfries  are  ringing  the  curfew.  They 
come  in  with  a  sort  of  whiff  of  the  country  still 
clinging  to  them — Abigail  with  her  hands  full  of  hot- 
house flowers  and  her  mouth  of  blissful  babble. 

"  Lady  Bramshill  sends  you  these.  She  gathered 
them  herself,  though  she  seemed  a  good  deal  afraid  of 
the  gardener,  and  there  is  one — a  California — which, 
she  said,  he  would  kill  her  if  he  found  out  that  she. 
had  been  cutting  ;  but,  all  the  same,  she  is  going  to 
tell  him  to  send  you  flowers  twice  a  week.  She  was 
so  sorry  you  could  not  come.  She  asked  so  much 
about  you,  and  wanted  to  know  how  long  it  is  since 
you  have  been  such  an  invalid." 

"  An  invalid  !  "  growing  a  little  pink.  "  I  am  no 
invalid  !  " 

"  Oli,  but  do  not  you  remember  you  told  us  to  say 
that  you  were  indisposed?  And  when  she  asked  if 
you  would  come  with  us  to-morrow,  Harry  looked 
very  grave,  and  said  he  feared  you  might  still  be 
indisposed.  I  was  so  afraid  of  catching  his  eye  and 
laughing,  but  it  answered  perfectly.  Lady  Brams- 
hill was  not  in  the  least  offended,  and  yet  she  will  not 
expect  you." 

"You  are  going,  then,  again  to-morrow?" 

The  question  is  addressed  to  that  one  of  the  truants 
who  has  not  hitherto  spoken,  and  is  sent  gently  to 
him  on  a  serene  and  quite  happy-looking  smile, 
which,  if  he  did  but  know  it,  goes  far  to  disprove  his 
own  assertion  of  her  want  of  power  to  disguise  her 
feelings. 

She  is  dressed  even  more  prettily  than  usual,  in  a 
gown  that  her  son  helped  her  to  choose,  and  perhaps 


106  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

for  that  reason,  though  he  has  forgotten  the  circum- 
stance, never  sees  without  commending.  The  ugly 
guest  that  has  sat  at  her  heart's  hearth  all  her  long 
day  has  left  at  least  no  trace  of  his  visit  on  the  sweet 
smallness  of  lier  face.  She  has  always  liked  her  own 
beaut\r,  because  of  his  pride  in  it.  Perhaps  now  it 
will  help  her  to  win  back  the  ground  she  lost  last 
night  by  her  defect  of  sympathy  with  him. 

"  Unless  you  can  rescue  us,"  he  answers. 

"I  could  not  fulfill  my  promise  of  keeping  an  eye 
upon  Harry  and  Euphemia,"  cries  Abigail,  bubbling 
over  into  giggles,  "  because  they  disappeared  some- 
where together  for  nearly  the  whole  afternoon. 
Lady  Bramshill  grew  quite  fidgety  about  them." 

It  has  seemed  to  the  covertly  watching  mother 
that,  though  it  is  only  her  son's  back  from  which  she 
can  draw  inferences,  since  he  is  just  walking  off  to 
dress,  at  Abigail's  indiscretion  even  his  shoulders 
have  an  annoyed  look. 

"  I  dare  say  that  they  had  pleasant  things  to  talk 
about — that  they  found  interesting  subjects  to  discuss 
in  common,"  rejoins  she,  with  soft  haste. 

By  the  tone  of  her  voice  and  the  shape  of  her  sen- 
tence she  would  fain  convey  to  him  both  a  knowledge 
of  what  the  theme  she  hints  at  must  have  been  and  a 
willingness  to  approach  it  conciliatorily.  In  a  sense 
she  succeeds,  for  at  the  door  he  turns,  and,  showing  a 
brow  which,  though  obviously  lately  cloudy,  is  as 
apparently  now  clearing,  answers  pretty  cheerfully  : 

"  We  bickered  a  good  deal.  She  is  a  girl  whom 
one  would  alwa3*s  bicker  a  good  deal  with.  I  like  a 
pillowy  woman." 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  107 

The  fiction  of  Mrs.  Clarence's  invalidhood  is  suc- 
cessfully maintained  during  the  remaining  week  of 
Abigail  Dent's  visit,  and  her  friend  Lady  Bramshill 
is  too  much  occupied  by  her  gigantic  brood,  their 
cricket  suppers  and  their  impending  transplantation  to 
the  seaside,  to  be  able  to  verify  in  person  the  reports 
of  her  indisposition  ;  she  has  to  content  herself  with 
a  storm  of  notes,  vegetables,  names  of  London 
doctors  to  be  consulted  and  local  ones  to  be  shunned. 
But  the  young  people  meet  repeatedly.  Between  the 
estimate  of  the  family  at  The  Beeches  formed  by 
Harry  and  that  by  Abigail  Dent,  a  mean  is  more 
nearly  being  arrived  at  than  at  first  seemed  probable. 

Abigail  has  had  some  illusions  to  lose,  in  the  dis- 
covery that  a  further  acquaintance  with  Adolphus 
reveals  more  likeness  to  her  own  boys  in  the  matter 
of  a  willingness  to  run  her  off  her  legs  in  his  service, 
than  the  fine  veneer  of  his  early  manner,  under 
Eupliemia's  eye,  had  led  her  to  expect.  Harry,  on  the 
other  hand,  if  he  never  says  much  in  praise  of 
Euphemia,  has  ceased  to  gird  at  her  height  or  her 
atitocrac}-. 

At  the  close  of  a  second  garden  party  at  The 
Beeches,  during  which  Miss  Branish ill's  aid  to  her 
parent  has  been  conspicuously  wanting,  and  her  pres- 
ence not  conspicuously  present,  Lady  Bramshill  meets 
her  daughter  sauntering  leisurely  homeward  across 
the  gravel  just  furrowed  by  the  latest  wheel. 

"  Where  have  you  been  ? "  she  asks,  with  that 
natural  irritability  which  the  sight  of  cool  slim  idle- 
ness must  breed  in  the  breast  of  toiling  fat.  "  I  have 
been  looking  for  you  everywhere.  Mrs.  Eraser 


108  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

wanted  to  see  the  things  that  are  over  from  the 
bazaar,  and  the  prices  had  come  off  some  of  them, 
and  I  am  sure  I  undercharged  her  shamefully  for 
that  pokerwork  screen.  Where  can  you  have 
been  ?  " 

"  And  how  can  you  have  made  yourself  so  aston- 
ishingly hot  wondering  about  such  a  very  simple 
tiling?"  replies  Euphemia,  looking  with  an  unfeigned, 
if  rather  superior,  compassion  at  her  mother.  "  I  was 
sitting  in  the  boathouse  with  Harry." 

"  Harry  ?     What  Harry  ?     Harry  who  ?  " 

"  Harry  Clarence.     Who  else  ?  " 

«  H'm ! " 

"  He  tried  to  scull  me  up  the  river,  but  the  weeds 
were  so  thick  we  could  not  get  along, — I  must  really 
speak  to  Felton  about  having  it  cleared  out, — so  we 
came  back  and  sat  in  the  boathouse." 

«  H'm  !  " 

"  Why  do  you  go  on  saying  '  H'm '  ?  " 

There  is  that  note  of  lofty  rebuke  in  the  daughter's 
voice  before  which  Lady  Bramshill  is  wont  to  bow  a 
subdued  and  suppliant  head  ;  but  her  wrongs  and 
her  temperature  have  apparently  made  her  less  tract- 
able than  usual. 

"I  go  on  saying  'H'm,'"  replies  she,  with  fire, 
"  because  I  do  not  think  it  was  very  kind  of  you  to 
leave  me  to  bear  the  whole  burden  of  entertaining 
seventy  people,  with  the  thermometer  at  eighty-nine 
in  the  shade." 

"  In  the  sun,  you  mean,"  correcting  her  mother's 
error  with  a  cool  moderation  which  exasperates  that 
mother  still  further. 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  109 

"  Nor  do  I  see  why  you  need  have  entirely  monopo- 
lized one  of  our  very  few  young  men." 

Euphemia's  well-drawn  eyebrows  rise  a  little  in 
unaffected  surprise  at  this  most  unwonted  strain  of 
scolding.  It  gives  her  a  slight  feeling  of  titillated 
amusement. 

"  Why  should  not  I?    Nobody  else  wanted  him." 

Lady  Bramshill  is  so  much  in  the  habit  of  being 
nonplused  by  her  daughter  that  to  this  question, 
though  there  are  half  a  dozen  good  answers  to  it,  she 
gives  none. 

"  Most  girls  like  each  other  better  than  men  nowa- 
days," continues  Euphemia ;  "  and  as  to  Abigail 
Dent,  so  as  she  has  somebody's  boots  to  lick,  it  is  not 
of  the  least  consequence  whose." 

"  What  you  could  find  to  say  to  him  all  those  hours 
passes  my  comprehension." 

"  Does  it  ?  " 

"  You  began  by  calling  him  a  prig." 

"Yes." 

"  You  began  by  saying  that  he  was  a  gigantic 
prig." 

"  One  seldom  ends  quite  where  one  began,  does 
one  ? " 

The  words  are  ambiguous,  but  the  tone  is  so  teas- 
ing, and  the  smile  at  her  lip-corners  so  unimpassioned 
and  so  sly,  that  a  partial  reassurance  comes  to  the 
mother.  But  it  is  only  partial,  and  she  still  feels 
extremely  hot. 

"  I  know,"  she  says,  with  the  normal  pride  in  her 
progeny  bursting  through  the  evanescent  ire,  "  that 
there  is  not  a  girl  in  Europe  better  able  to  take  care 


110  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

of  herself  than  you  ;  but  you  must  remember  that 
you  are  only  eighteen,  and  also  that  you  ought  to 
think  of  him." 

"  I  think  of  him  very  often." 

"  You  say  that  only  to  plague  me,"  fanning  herself 
with  the  programme  of  the  band  music,  for  it  has 
been  a  Blue  Hungarian  function. 

"  I  do  not.  I  say  it  because  it  is  true.  I  do  think 
of  him  a  good  deal." 

"  Then  all  I  can  say  is,  you  had  better  begin  to 
leave  off  thinking  of  him  as  quickly  as  you  can." 

There  is  so  much  more  brusque  earnestness  in  her 
manner  than  seems  to  her  daughter  warranted  by  the 
occasion,  that  she  unbuttons  two  protesting  eyes  and 
asks  : 

"Why?" 

"  Because  " — with  energy — "  there  is  not  anyone 
in  the  whole  circle  of  our  acquaintance  whom  you 
can  think  of  less  profitably — think  of,  that  is,  in  the 
sense  which  the  word  generally  bears  in  a  girl's 
mouth." 

"  I  do  not  know  anything  about  other  girls'  mouths; 
in  mine  it  means  exactly  the  same  as  it  does  in  the 
dictionary." 

"Very  well,  very  well !"  retorts  Lad}7-  Bramshill, 
breaking  the  back  of  the  programme  in  the  energy 
of  her  oscillation.  "  You  can  always  get  the  better 
of  me  because  you  are  so  much  cleverer,  better  edu- 
cated." 

"  I  do  not  think  " — laughing  in  good-humored  sur- 
prise— "  that  I  have  given  any  evidence  of  oppres- 
sively high  culture  in  the  conversation  so  far." 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  Ill 

"  But  I  know  what  I  mean." 

"  It  is  more  than  I  do.  A  week  ago  there  was 
nothing  too  good  for  you  to  say  of  the  man  :  bis 
manners  to  his  mother,  the  color  of  his  hair,  the  way 
he  picked  up  }rour  pocket  handkerchief — everything 
lie  did  became  him  in  the  doing." 

"  I  do  not  go  back  from  a  word  of  it.  I  am  sure 
he  is  an  out-and-out  good  fellow,  and  his  mother 
worships  his  very  shadow." 

There  is  a  slight  tincture  of  remorse  in  the  tone  of 
the  last  words,  which  emboldens  the  never-wanting- 
in-boldness  Euphemia  to  throw  her  bombshell. 

"  Then,  if  I  have  fastened,  or  am  intending  to 
fasten,  my  young  affections  upon  him,  what,  in 
Heaven's  name,  is  there  to  hinder  me  ?  " 

The  effect  of  a  bombshell  is  often  almost  as  stai'- 
tling  to  the  thrower  as  to  the  object  aimed  at,  nor  is 
the  present  case  an  exception. 

"  What  is  there  to  hinder  you  ?  "  repeats  Lady 
Bramshill,  with  a  shocked  emphasis  which  has  very 
apparently  nothing  fictitious  about  it.  "  How  little 
you  know  what  you  are  talking  about  !  If  I  thought 
that  there  was  the  least  chance  of  that,  how 
bitterly  I  should  regret  having  ferreted  out  poor 
Lucy  !  " 

"  I  fancy  that  she  regrets  it  alread\r,"  replies 
Euphemia,  in  puzzled  mirth,  "  since  you  have  robbed 
her  of  her  son's  company,  and  sent  her  more  vege- 
table marrows  than  anyone  could  eat  in  the  course  of 
the  longest  life." 

"  Where  is  Abigail  ?"  asks  Adolphus,  coming  up 
at  this  point,  and  rescuing  his  mother  for  the  moment 


112  SCYLLA  OR  CIIARYBDIS  ? 

from  that  pursuit  of  the  enigmatic  subject  upon 
which  his  sister  is  bent. 

"Abigail!"  repeats  Euphemia  reprovingly.  "My 
dear  boy,  do  you  think  that  that  is  the  proper  way 
of  speaking  of  a  young  lady  behind  her  back  ?  " 

"It  is  the  way  in  which  I  speak  to  the  young  lady 
to  her  face,"  replies  Adolphus,  but,  like  his  mother, 
less  docilely  than  visual  ;  "  she  asked  me  to  call  her 
Abigail." 

"  The  way  in  which  you  put  upon  that  poor  girl  is 
really  too  bad  ! "  says  Lady  Bramshill,  unconsciously 
solaced  by  finding  someone  on  whom  safely  to  vent 
the  irritation  of  her  spirit,  and  making  the  innocent 
Adolphus  pay  for  his  sister's  guilt.  "I  saw  her 
yesterday  positively  staggering  under  the  weight  of 
your  fishing-tackle." 

"I  cannot  help  it,"  replies  Adolphus  gloomily. 
"  I  never  saw  such  a  girl — she  sa}Ts  she  likes  carrying 
things.  I  have  tried  to  stop  her,  but  I  cannot.  Yes, 
Euphemia,  you  may  laugh,  but  I  have.  She  has 
always  been  getting  me  into  trouble  with  you  ever 
since  the  first  day  when  you  dragged  me  out  of  the 
bushes.  I  wish  she  had  never  come  near  the  place  ! " 

He  disappears,  as  always,  deferential  to  his  sister, 
but  with  lacerated  feelings. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Uxcoxscious  of  the  torch  of  discord  that  her  too 
great  obsequiousness  has  lit  at  The  Beeches,  Abigail 
sings  her  nightly  paean  in  praise  of  the  family  there 
to  patient,  but  rather  tired,  ears. 

Harry  sings  no  paean,  but  he  continues  to  frequent 
their  society. 

His  mother  suffers  none  of  the  apprehensions  that 
are  beginning  to  disturb  Lady  Bramshill  ;  that  would 
have  tormented  herself,  had  not  a  bigger  cloud  of 
dread  wiped  off  all  the  little  foolish  cloudlets  of  base- 
less fear  that  were  wont  to  fleck  her  firmament.  She 
would  not  even  grudge  the  loss  of  his  society — has 
she  ever  grudged  him  anything  ? — if  she  could  think 
it  was  only  the  innocent  delight  taken  by  the  young 
in  the  young  that  has  robbed  her  of  his  company. 
But  the  gravity  of  his  face,  in  moments  when  he 
thinks  himself  sheltered  from  her  observation,  tells 
her  that  it  is  the  fact  of  his  having  for  the  first  time 
in  his  life  a  trouble, — or,  at  least,  an  absorbing  inter- 
est,— which  he  is  unable  to  share  with  her,  that  makes 
him  happier  out  of  than  in  her  presence. 

There  is  a  slight,  gossamer-slight  veil  being  drawn 
between  their  hearts.  She  compares  it  in  her  own 
mind  to  the  cataract  slowly  growing  over  an  eye — 
a  thin,  imperceptibly  thin,  skin  to  begin  with,  end- 
ing in  total  darkness. 

113 


114  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBD1S  ? 

With  bitter  self-reproach  she  tells  herself  that  it  is 
her  own  fault  :  the  result  of  that  senseless,  lifelong 
jealousy  of  whose  existence  he  is  as  well  aware  as 
she  herself.  How  long  ago  did  she  begin  to  be  jeal- 
ous of  him,  she  asks  herself,  sitting  lonely  in  the  little 
back  garden  under  her  plum  tree,  and  looking 
vacantly  at  the  tobacco  blossoms — brown,  dead-look- 
ing, and  shabby  in  their  daylight  dishabille.  She 
was  jealous — sick-jealous  ;  jealous  even  to  dismissal 
of  his  nurse  Nasmyth,  old  and  valuable  servant  as 
she  was  ;  jealous  of  the  button-nosed  baby  who  sat 
on  the  bench  at  the  kindergarten  beside  him.  But 
she  has  never  been  really  jealous  before. 

Daily  that  creeping  hatred — hatred  of  an  unseen, 
unknown  object,  }Tet  none  the  less  hatred — steals 
further  into  her  heart.  The  ugly,  unaccustomed 

O    •/  ' 

inmate  frightens  her.  She  has  been  so  little  used  to 
hate  anyone  !  The  discovery  that  she  is  capable  of 
it  fills  her  with  a  sense  of  her  deep  depravity. 

Her  form  of  religion  is  one  that  has  led  her  to  find 
comfort  in  confession,  and  as  upon  the  door  of  St. 
Michael's  Church  hangs  one  of  those — a  little  disin- 
genuous— announcements  that  some  of  the  clergy 
will  be  to  be  found  in  the  church  between  the  hours 
of  two  and  four,  she  has  been  in  the  habit  of  availing 
herself  of  it,  to  clear  her  spirit  from  the  stain  of  her 
tiny  peccadilloes. 

How  much  more,  then,  ought  she  to  acknowledge 
and  do  penance  for  a  sin  of  so  much  deeper  a  dye  ! 
But  it  is  infinitely  difficult  to  her  to  bring  herself  to 
the  accomplishment  of  this,  to  her,  so  obvious  duty. 
What  if  the  penance  imposed  be  that  of  receiving 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  115 

with  open  arras — and  even  going  to  meet — the 
calamity  that  threatens  her  ? 

It  is  not  till  the  day  of  Abigail's  departure  that  she 
nerves  herself  to  the  execution  of  her  task.  Her  son 
has  gone  to  see  off  at  the  station  the  tearful  girl,  who 
is  leaving  St.  Gratian  with  several  street  problems 
unsolved. 

As  Mrs.  Clarence  issues  from  the  church  her  son 
joins  her.  He  sees  her  before  she  sees  him.  The 
last  week's  mental  struggle  has  told  upon  her,  or  is 
it  the  shadow  of  the  porch  from  which  she  emerges 
that  throws  a  sickly  light  upon  her? 

"  I  knew  that  you  were  a  safe  find  here,"  Harry 
says,  smiling,  and  yet  with  a  tinge  of  annoyance  in 
his  tone.  "  How  pale  you  look  !  I  suppose  you  have 
been  kneeling  for  hours  upon  that  hard,  cold  pave- 
ment?" 

"  Indeed  I  have  not.     I  had  a  hassock." 

They  are  walking  down  the  little  sleepy  thorough- 
fare, where  there  is  no  incommoding  jostle,  nor  much 
noise  of  wheels  to  make  talk  difficult. 

"  Well,  did  she  set  off  all  right  ?  " 

"  She  was  a  little  sniffy,  poor  child  !  but  consoled 
by  chocolates  out  of  a  slot." 

"I  am  afraid  you  will  miss  her." 

"  I  am  quite  sure  I  shall  not." 

There  is  so  much  energy  in  the  denial  that  the  idea 
at  once  flashes  across  his  mother's  mind — perennially 
occupied  by  one  idea — that  he  has  been  waiting  the 
departure  of  the  visitor  to  embark  with  herself  upon 
the  shunned  theme,  which  yet  both  feel  to  be  so  near. 
The  thought  takes  her  breath  away.  Is  the  strength 


110  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

of  the  holy  resolutions  that  she  has  been  so  devoutly 
and  heartfeltly  framing  in  the  confessional  to  be  put 
so  quickly  to  the  proof  ?  At  least,  it  must  not  be  in 
the  open  street. 

They  reach  home  with  scarcely  another  word 
exchanged,  and  pass  straight  through  the  house  to 
the  plum  tree,  under  whose  shade  t\vo  Turkey-red- 
covered  bamboo  chairs  await  and  receive  them. 

Mrs.  Clarence's  head  feels  hot.  She  would  like  to 
take  off  her  hat,  but  the  mechanical  habit  of  a  life- 
time, which  has  now  the  strength  of  an  instinct, — the 
habit  of  never  letting  her  boy  see  her  at  anything  bat 
the  highest  pitch  of  dainty  neatness, — checks  the 
impulse.  There  might  be  a  hair  or  two  out  of  place, 
and  "  a  sweet  disorder  in  the  dress  "  is  lovely  only  in 
early  youth.  She  does  not  formulate  the  thought, 
but  it  keeps  her  hatted.  No  such  consideration  need 
or  does  affect  the  young  man.  He  throws  off  his  hat, 
and  leans  back,  with  one  hand  holding  his  temples, 
and  with  its  fingers  wrinkling  the  skin  of  his  fore- 
head. 

"  Have  you  a  headache  ?  " 

"  Not  in  the  least.     I  was  only  thinking." 

The  easy,  natural  question,  "Thinking  of  what?" 
would  probably  arrive  at  the  core  of  the  matter,  but 
it  is  not  put. 

"  I  was  thinking  how  convenient  it  would  be  occa- 
sionally to  be  able  to  be  in  two  places  at  once,  like  a 
bird." 

She  looks  gently  interrogative. 

"  I  have  been  springing  a  little  surprise  upon  you. 
You  know  that  I  went  to  London  a  day  or  two  ago. 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  117 

Well,  it  was  to  visit  Mr.  Cook,  and  take  tickets  for 
our  trip  down  the  Loire.  I  thought  that  as  soon  as  we 
had  shunted  Abigail  you  would  be  ready  to  start." 

A  little  billow  of  color,  slight  and  delicate,  like 
everything  else  about  her,  washes  over  Mrs.  Clarence's 
face.  During  the  last  week  the  Loire  has  seemed  a 
more  distant  stream  than  Abana  and  Pharpar,  rivers 
of  Damascus. 

"I  am  always  ready  to  start  in  five  minutes,  as  you 
know," — with  a  low,  happy  laugh, — "or,  indeed,  at  a 
pinch,  in  two  and  a  half." 

"And  now  I  perversely  get  by  this  afternoon's 
post  an  invitation  for  the  same  time  ;  an  invitation 
which" — a  moment's  hesitation — "I  should  have 
rather  liked  to  accept." 

He  has  drawn  an  envelope  from  his  pocket,  and 
half,  but  only  half,  holds  it  out  to  her.  Since  it  is 
only  half  offered,  honor  bids  her  feign  not  to  see  the 
overture,  but  out  of  the  corner  of  her  eye  she  detects 
an  Eastshire  postmark. 

"It  is  a  bore  when  pleasant  tilings  clash,  isn't  it?" 
he  asks. 

His  persistence  shows  her  that  he  wishes  to  be 
questioned,  though  the  letter  has  slidden  back  into 
his  pocket. 

"  It  is  from — whom  ?  " 

"  From  Mrs.  Bevis." 

She  had  known  it,  and  yet  she  cannot  help  a 
slight  start,  which  makes  the  bamboo  of  her  chair 
rustle. 

"  Why,  you  left  her  only  ten  days  ago  !  " 

His  head  is  stooped  over  the  yellow  kitchen  cat, 


118  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

who  has  stepped  out  of  the  area  to  greet  him,  and 
whose  long  upright  tail  he  is  smoothing  from  root  to 
tip.  The  sensation  is  none  the  less  agreeable  to  her 
that  he  is  unaware  of  causing  it. 

"It  is  about  that  recreation  room  which  was  the 
primary  object  of  my  visit,  and  which  we  forgot  all 
about  ;  or,  rather,  we  were  too  busy  with  the  har- 
vest"—  a  luxury  of  recollection  in  his  voice.  "  And 
now  the  well-known  philanthropist,  Henderson,  has 
promised  to  run  down  to  her,  and  she  wants  me  to 
meet  him,  and  give  her  the  benefit  of  my  legal 
knowledge  as  to  a  disputed  point  about  the  land." 

Human  nature  asserts  its  sway.  So  it  seems  the 
Loire  is  still  to  be  classed  with  Abana  and  Pharpar 
for  her.  She  cannot  speak. 

"Of  course,  in  the  case  of  a  man  so  much  occupied 
as  Henderson,  one  must  take  him  when  one  can  get 
him  ;  and  besides,  as  Mrs.  Bevis  says,  she  knows  that 
as  soon  as  the  Courts  begin  to  sit  again,  1  shall  be 
tied." 

"  "Will  Mr.  Cook  take  back  the  tickets,  or  shall  we 
be  obliged  to  forfeit  them  ?  Perhaps  if  I  knew  what 
sort  of  a  traveler  Abigail  would  make,  I  might  take 
her  with  me  instead  of  you." 

There  is  a  creditably  tiny  quiver  in  her  voice,  but 
there  is  no  huff.  Perfect  love,  among  the  many 
tilings  besides  fear  which  it  casts  out,  excludes  huff. 

Her  son  detects  the  tremble.  He  drops  the  yellow 
cat's  tail,  a  desistence  which  she  1'eceives  with  a  stri- 
dent mew  of  displeasure,  and  lays  his  hand  on  his 
mother's  daintily  gloved  one,  which  she  never  exposes 
to  sun  tan. 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  119 

"You  are  in  a  prodigious  hurry  to  dismiss  me. 
Abigail  would  make  a  terrific  fellow-traveler ;  she 
would  be  the  death  of  you  in  a  week,  and  I  decline 
to  be  thrown  away  like  an  old  glove  after  all  my 
years  of  faithful  couriership." 

She  looks  at  him  as  if  doubting  her  own  good  for- 
tune, doubting,  too,  whether,  even  if  it  be  within  her 
reach,  she  dare  seize  it. 

"  I  only  want  you  to  do  what  you  like  best,  and 
you  know  that  the  Loire,  though  it  is  always  running, 
will  not  run  away.  We  can  go  there  next " 

She  cannot  finish  the  sentence.  She  knows  that  if 
Harry  steam  past  Blois  and  Chenonceaux  and 
Amboise  next  year,  it  will  be  with  Honor  by  his 
side.  If  there  were  still  any  selfish  hesitation  in  his 
heart,  that  half-finished  sentence  ends  it. 

"What  have  I  always  liked  best?  Pack  your 
trunk  ;  we  set  off  on  Monday." 

"My  trunk  f" — between  laughing  and  crying — 
"that  sounds  like  one  of  those  dreadful  hair  things 
that  servants  used  to  have  in  my  youth.  And  what 
about  Eastshire  ?  " 

"Eastshire  be  hanged  !  " 

It  is  the  nearest  approach  to  the  heroic  he  has 
ever  made  in  all  his  twenty-eight  years.  "Eastshire 
be  hanged  ! "  The  phrase  recurs  with  reassuring 
force  to  Mrs.  Clarence  during  the  ensuing  foreign 
trip  whenever  the  idea  strikes  her  that  that  trip  is 
not  quite  what  former  ones  had  been.  It  would  be 
hard  to  her  to  say  in  what  the  difference  lies.  But 
that  there  is  a  subtle  one,  she  tries  in  vain  to  dis- 
prove to  herself.  The  weather  is  admirable,  her 


120  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

own  punctuality  as  impeccable,  and  her  son's  appro- 
bation of  it  as  sincere,  and  as  openly  expressed,  as 
ever.  They  come  upon  pleasant  people,  of  whom 

they  see  enough,  and  not  too  much,  and  yet • 

The  spirit  seems  to  have  evaporated  out  of  the  vial. 

For  the  first  time  in  their  lives,  both  are  glad 
when  the  holiday  ends.  Harry  is  gladder  still  when 
the  Law  Courts  resume  their  sittings.  On  the  first 
day  of  his  resumption  of  work  his  mother  notices  an 
alerter  tone  in  his  voice  on  his  return  than  had  been 
observable  since  his  Eastshire  visit. 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  Well,  how  have  you  been  getting  on  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  saw  Blair,  and  White,  and  Harvey.  Blair 
lias  been  to  Chicago,  and  White  has  been  to  Ron- 
mania,  and  Harvey  has  had  a  river  in  Norway.  Very 
poor  sport ;  an  extraordinarily  dry  year." 

"  I  do  not  care  where  they  have  been,  or  what  they 
have  been  doing.  What  I  want  to  know  is,  what 
you  have  been  doing  to-day  ?" 

"  I !  Oh,  I  have  been  in  rather  an  amusing  case  : 
a  grocer  bringing  an  action  for  libel  against  a 
novelist  because  he  made  one  of  his  characters  in  a 
novel  describe  his  (the  tradesman's)  goods  as 
'  shoddy.' " 

"  And  were  they  shoddy  ?  " 

"  Undoubtedly  ;  but  that  would  not  affect  the 
libel." 

"  Were  you  for  the  plaintiff  or  the  defendant  ?  " 

"  For  the  plaintiff." 

"For  the  shoddy  grocer?"  lifting  her  eyebrows. 

"  Yes  ;  old  Hodgins  was   my  leader.     lie  opened 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  121 

the  case,  and  then  he  had  to  go  off  to  another  he  was 
engaged  in  in  the  Court  of  Appeal." 

"  And  you  were  in — what  court  ?  " 

"  Queen's  Bench.  I  went  on  with  the  case.  I  had 
to  examine  the  witnesses  ;  some  amusing  things  came 
out." 

"  What  sort  of  things  ?  " 

But  Mrs.  Clai'ence  is  destined  never  to  hear  what 
flowers  of  forensic  humor  adorned  tlie  case  of  Stokes 
versus  Nokes,  for  at  this  moment  her  son's  eye  falls 
upon  a  letter  which  the  entering  servant  is  tendering 
him,  and  which,  after  one  glance  at  the  superscrip- 
tion, he  tears  open.  She  sees  his  face  fall  as  he 
reads,  and  the  gesture  of  thrusting  the  document  into 
his  pocket,  on  meeting  the  solicitude  of  her  eye,  gives 
her  an  inkling  of  whence  it  comes. 

"  You  were  asking  me — ichat?"  he  says,  with  an 
ohvious  effort  to  recover  wits  which  have  plainly 
strayed  far  enough  afield. 

"  I  was  asking  you  what  the  sort  of  amusing  things 
were  which  came  out." 

"  Stupid  of  me  !  I  cannot  recall  any  special  one  at 
this  moment.  They  will  come  back  to  me  in  the 
course  of  the  evening." 

"  I  hope  " — very  hesitatingly — "  that  you  have  not 
had  bad  news  ?" 

"  No-o  !  oli,  dear  no  !  My  letter,  if  that  is  what 
you  allude  to,  is  only  a  business  one." 

She  must  have  been  mistaken  in  thinking  that  she 
had  descried  that  Eastshire  postmark. 

"  At  least,  it  is  only  relating  to  Mrs.  Bevis'  recre- 
ation room." 


122  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

Then  her  eyes  had  not  deceived  her. 

"It  will  be  no  recreation  room  to  you  by  the  time 
you  have  done  with  it.  Will  you  be  able  to  squeeze 
out  a  day  or  two  from  your  courts?  Your  Sundays, 
at  all  events,  are  free  ;  and  from  what  you  tell  me  of 
her,  Mrs.  Bevis  is  not,  I  fancy,  a  very  strict  Sabba- 
tarian." 

"She  does  not  want  me  to  go  there  ;  she  only 
asks  for  my  written  opinion." 

"  Indeed  !  " 

"  She  could  not  receive  me,  for  the  excellent  reason 
that  she  will  not  be  at  home  herself.  She  is  off 
almost  immediately  to  India." 

"  Alone  ?   What  an  enterprising  lady  she  must  be  !  " 

"  Not  quite  alone.     Miss  Lisle  goes  with  her." 

Once  already  a  messenger  has  come  galloping  up 
to  Mrs.  Clarence's  gallows'  foot  with  a  reprieve  in  his 
hand,  but  it  is  not  usual  for  such  a  thing  to  happen 
twice.  Safe  for  a  whole  winter  !  Safe  from  insid- 
ious projects  of  philanthropy  veiling  cruel  designs 
against  her  peace  !  Safe  from  shrimping  and  bare- 
backed horse  riding,  and  from  the  whole  battery  of 
unladylike  yet  incomprehensibly  beguiling  artillery 
that  has  been  leveled  against  Lira  !  The  evil 
thought,  that  wears  almost  the  face  of  a  hope,  of 
how  man}'  perils  beset  even  the  easy  path  of  the 
traveler  of  to-day  flashes  across  her  mind,  with  the 
other  thought  hard  upon  its  heels,  of  how  ugly  a 
figure  the  mere  admission  of  such  a  half  hope  will 
cut  when  she  next  kneels  at  the  confessional.  But 
not  even  the  remorseful  pang  that  accompanies  her 
recognition  of  the  wickedness  of  her  own  heart  can 


SCYLLA  OR  CIIARYBDIS?  123 

go  near  to  quell  the  tin-ill  of  joy  with  which  slie 
repeats  over  and  over  to  herself,  "  For  the  winter  he 
is  safe." 

It  goes  placidly  by  :  soft-weathered,  and  cut  off  at 
both  ends  by  a  late  tarrying  autumn  and  a  hurrying 
spring.  It  seems  to  her  the  shortest  she  has  ever 
known.  The  mildness  of  the  weather  does  not  in 
reality  abridge  the  Indian  travelers'  absence,  yet  it 
gives  the  impression  of  having  done  so.  It  is  behind 
them.  Easter,  too,  with  its  recess,  lias  now  spun 
past,  and  before  you  can  "crier  gare  "  summer  and  a 
latish  Whitsun  are  upon  the  world. 

The  two  Orientals  must  have  returned  long  ere 
this,  yet  no  tidings  of  their  having  done  so  reach 
slumbrous  St.  Gratian  ;  no  note  of  invitation  or 
inquiry  or  mere  greeting  arrives  from  Eastshire — at 
least,  not  to  Mrs.  Clarence's  knowledge  ;  and  she  is 
certain  that  an  intuition  would  make  her  at  once 
divine  on  her  boy's  face,  in  the  timbre  of  his  voice, 
and  his  very  gait,  the  glow  and  thrill  and  electric  life 
which  any  communication,  any  renewed  connection, 
with  that  not  very  inspiring  county  would  lend  him. 

But  for  this  conviction,  his  much  more  frequently 
than  formerly  remaining  in  London  for  a  night  or 
two  to  fulfill  evening  engagements  might  inspire  her 
with  suspicion.  But  she  knows  that  upon  the  counte- 
nance of  those  who  have  been  face  to  face  with  their 
God  a  betraying  luster  must  always  linger,  and  upon 
his,  when  he  returns  to  her,  there  is  none.  He  is  as 
loving  as  ever,  perhaps  even  a  little  more  demonstra- 
tively so  than  he  used  to  be,  and  busy,  the  illustrious 
Hodgins  having  continued  to  put  work  in  his  way  ; 


124  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

but  there  is  no  radiance  about  him.  His  increased 
tenderness  of  manner  would  lift  her  to  the  skies  if  it 
were  not  spoiled  by  the  suspicion  that  it  is  due  to  the 
likeness  he  has  imagined  in  her  to  the  absent  object  of 
her  dread.  She  would  like — oh,  how  earnestly  ! — to 
amputate,  as  it  were,  from  his  kind  looks  all  that  does 
not  honestly  belong  to  her. 

Between  the  Bramshills  and  the  little  household  at 
St.  Gratian,  for  one  reason  or  another,  there  has  been 
less  communication  than  the  first  ardor  of  their  inter- 
course would  lead  one  to  expect.  It  is  possible  that 
Lady  Bramshill's  fears  about  the  son  may  have 
lessened  her  desire  to  extract  the  mother  from  her 
shell,  or  the  hopelessness  of  the  task  rebutted  her  ; 
and  Harry's  own  willingness  to  frequent  The  Beeches 
— always  of  a  rather  spurious  quality — seems  to  have 
been  exchanged  for  an  occasional  careless  call  of 
civility. 

Euphemia  has,  since  Mrs.  Clarence  discovered  the 
true  lie  of  the  land  in  her  son's  heart,  never  been  an 
object  of  jealousy  to  her  ;  yet  she  is  glad  that  even 
liis  false  and  second-hand  relish  for  her  society  has 
died  out.  There  had  never  been  but  one  topic  of 
common  interest  between  them, — that  of  Honor  Lisle, 
— and  it  is  evidence,  almost  too  reassuring  to  be  be- 
lieved, of  his  growing  indifference  to  the  subject  that 
lie  no  longer  seeks  the  company  of  the  one  with 
whom  alone  he  could  discuss  it. 

Whitsun  has  come,  and  even  slow  St.  Gratian  has 
felt  in  some  degree  the  titillation  of  its  festivity. 
Large  posters  adorn  its  blank  walls,  announcing  the 
advent,  for  one  night  only,  of  the  world-famous  Miss 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  125 

Poppy  de  Vere,  of  the  Popularity  Theater.  The 
young  lady  in  question,  besides  being  a  danseuse  of 
the  highest  caliber,  has  the  additional  attraction  of 
being  the  consort  of  a  real  nobleman,  whose  coronet 
she  sprinkles,  with  that  liberality  which  marks  her 
whole  character,  over  her  stage  properties. 

The  dancing  might  have  left  St.  Gratian  cold,  be- 
ing a  staid  and  serious-minded  little  town  ;  but  the 
opportunity  of  seeing  a  countess  skip  for  hire  is  one 
which  its  inhabitants  cannot  resist,  and  every  place  is 
taken  in  the  usually  slackly  attended,  and,  by  the 
better  sort,  contemned,  little  theater.  The  stage-box 
is  occupied  by  as  many  of  the  Brarnshill  family  as 
can  fit  into  it,  and  such  as  cannot  have  boiled  over 
into  the  next  one. 

Their  party  is  swelled  by  three  guests — the  junior 
curate  of  St.  Michael's,  whom,  palpitating  and  pro- 
testing, Lady  Bramshill  has  compelled  to  come  in  ;  a 
sparkling  Indian  widow,  an  old  flame  of  the  judge's  ; 
and  a  j'oung  girl. 

"  It  is  packed  to  the  ceiling  !  "  saj-s  Lady  Brams- 
hill, in  a  tone  of  self-gratulation.  "I  do  like  a  full 
house  !  What  a  pity  that  better  companies  do  not 
come  here  generally  !  It  is  really  not  a  bad  little 
theater." 

"I  cannot  conceive  what  could  have  made  it  worth 
Poppy  de  Vere's  while  to  come  here,  all  the  same," 
replies  Euphemia  wonderingly,  "  or  why  her  manager 
allowed  her." 

"  From  what  I  have  heard  of  her,  I  should  think 
she  was  about  as  likely  to  ask  her  manager's  leave  us 
she  would  his  lordship's,"  says  the  widow,  with  an  air 


126  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

of  private  information.  "  I  suppose  that  she  will,  of 
course,  be  very  late  as  usual.  She  kept  the  audience 
at  the  Popularity  waiting  a  good  half  hour  one  night. 
Someone  in  the  pit  actually  hissed  her  when  she 
came  on  ;  and  when  she  did  appear,  it  was  with  one 
blue  and  one  pink  shoe.  Of  course,  she  was  a  little 
elevated  ! " 

To  this  edifying  account  of  the  habits  and  natural 
history  of  the  latest  addition  to  the  British  peerage 
the  two  girls,  being  girls  of  to-day,  listen  with  the 
most  perfect  equanimity,  not  even  enlivened  by 
interest  or  surprise,  since  they  knew  it  all  before. 

The  widow  has  to  turn  her  batteries  upon  the 
curate,  to  whom  she  imparts  in  an  undertone  anec- 
dotes of  the  danseuse's  past  history  —  rather  an 
accentuated  one.  He  is  so  shocked  and  ashamed  that, 
though  the  atmosphere  is  stifling,  he  keeps  on  his 
mackintosh  throughout  the  performance,  in  his  en- 
deavors to  conceal  his  cloth. 

"  Do  you  see  anyone  that  you  know,  Honor  ?  " 
asks  Euphemia,  in  a  low  tone,  of  her  girl  guest ;  "  I 
mean,  do  you  recognize  any  friend  ?  " 

The  eyes  of  the  person  addressed  are  at  the 
moment  fixed  upon  the  corresponding  box  to  that 
occupied  by  the  Bramshill  party  on  the  other 
side  of  the  theater — a  box  in  which  two  persons, 
a  young  man  and  a  young  woman,  have  just  seated 
themselves. 

"  I  see  a  Mr.  Clarence,  whom  I  met  last  year  in 
Eastshire,"  replies  the  other  quietly. 

The  answer  has  been  preceded  by  a  hesitation  so 
minute  as  to  escape  even  Euphemia's  keen  ears. 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  127 

"A  Mr.  Clarence  /"  repeats  she  indignantly.     "Is 

that  all  you  have  to  say  about  him?  Is  this  all  the 
outcome  of  the  surprise  I  have  so  cleverly  sprung 
upon  you  ?  " 

Miss  Lisle's  eyes  have  not,  after  the  first  glance, 
again  resorted  to  their  vis-d-vis.  They  turn  calmly 
to  her  friend. 

"  I  do  not  see  where  the  surprise  comes  in.  I  knew 
that  Mr.  Clarence  lived  at  St.  Gratian." 

"  There  is  Harry  Clarence,"  says  Lady  Bramshill, 
touching  her  daughter's  arm  with  her  fan,  "chaperon- 
ing that  little  cousin  of  his,  Miss  What's-her-name. 
So  she  is  staying  with  them  again.  Very  good- 
natured  of  him.  Not  but  what  I  dare  say  it  is  one 
word  for  her  and  t\vo  for  himself.  Ha,  ha  !  How 
lazy  of  Lucy  not  to  bring  the  girl  herself  !  I  shall 
tell  her  so  next  time  we  meet.  Or  what  do  you  say 
to  our  going  and  drawing  her  after  the  play?  It 
will  not  be  very  late,  because,  of  course,  we  will  only 
stay  for  Poppy's  last  dance.  Shall  we  make  her — 
Lucy,  I  mean — give  us  a  glass  of  claret  and  a 
sruuhvich?  What  do  you  say  ?  I  call  it  an  inspi- 
ration ! " 

Euphemia  shrugs  her  shoulders. 

"  You  will  probably  have  to  draw  her  out  of  bed  !  " 

The  disapproval  indicated  by  her  tone  is  not  so 
marked  as  that  with  which  she  often  salutes  her 
mother's  inspirations,  and  her  parent  goes  on : 

"  I  will  broach  the  idea  to  Harry  when  he  comes 
round  to  speak  to  us.  If  he  smiles  upon  it, — and  I 
am  sure  he  will, — I  do  not,  without  joking,  see  any 
reason  why  we  should  not  carry  it  out." 


128  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

Euphemia  refrains  from  either  assent  or  dissent, 
and  a  moment  later  the  curtain  rises  ;  and  though 
the  crowning  glory  of  the  evening  is  not  to  appear 
till  the  middle  of  the  first  act,  yet  the  expectation  of 
her  imminent  advent  keeps  eyes  and  ears  011  the 
alert. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

WHEN  at  length  Poppy,  Countess  of  Camelot,  beams 
on  the  sight,  blazing  in  jewels  other  than  Cornelia's, 
and  floats  across  the  stage  with  that  graceful  mixture 
of  the  feather  and  the  serpent  which,  in  combination — 
if  fame  wrong  her  not — with  a  command  of  bad  lan- 
guage unrivaled  in  the  greenrooms  of  Europe,  has 
danced  her  into  possession  of  lands  that  date  from 
Bosworth,  what  room  can  there  be  in  the  breasts  of 
her  audience  for  aught  but  reverent  and  breathless 
admiration  of  so  consummate  a  product  of  our  age? 
And  when  the  curtain  falls  after  the  first  act,  what 
topic  has  any  chance  in  competition  with  her  ?  The 
highest  pitch  of  enthusiasm  is,  perhaps,  reached  by 
the  Indian  widow,  who  is  heard  relating  to  the  curate 
how  a  great  social  authority  had  said  that  Poppy  de 
Vere's  legs  were  a  poem  ! — an  anecdote  Avhich  makes 
the  unfortunate  young  man  hug  his  suffocating  cloak 
as  closely  as  did  the  east  wind  in  the  fable  the 
traveler  his. 

When  the  second  act  and  interact  are  over,  Lady 
Bramshill  wakes  from  the  trance  of  admiration  which 
she  has  shared  with  the  rest  of  the  house  to  a  more 
everyday  topic  : 

"  I  cannot  think  Avhy  Harry  Clarence  has  not  been 
round  to  speak  to  us.  Did  he  make  you  out,  Honor  ? 
He  is  an  old  friend  of  yours,  isn't  he  ?  If  he  did,  how 
very  odd  that  he  does  not  come  to  renew  acquaint- 


130  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

ance  !  But  perhaps  the  curtain  hides  you.  Do  sit  a 
little  more  forward." 

"  I  do  not  think  there  is  any  need,"  replies  the  girl 
politely,  but  with  a  slight,  reluctant  smile;  "we 
bowed  to  each  other  some  little  time  ago." 

"  Oh,  that  is  all  right  !  I  suppose  he  does  not  like 
to  leave  his  cousin.  Very  absurd  of  him  ;  but  be  is 
such  a  formal  old  thing  !  Only  children  are  always 
either  grossly  ill  or  oppressively  well  mannered  ! 
Have  you  ever  noticed  that?" 

"  I  do  not  know  that  I  have  " — slowly. 

Euphemia  makes  a  sign  of  disapprobation  to  her 
mother,  behind  the  guest's  back,  of  the  slight  dis- 
paragement implied  in  her  last  remark. 

"  Mother  naturally  does  not  relish  manners  whose 
goodness  brings  home  to  her  the  unlicked  condition  of 
her  own  cubs  ! "  she  says,  with  a  laugh. 

Lady  Bramshill,  though  mystified  by  her  daugh- 
ter's frown,  and  not  much  relishing  this  partisanship, 
yet  from  the  force  of  habit,  and  because  her  spirit, 
except  under  the  stress  of  very  unusual  circumstances, 
always  stands  rebuked  before  her  child's,  hastens  to 
acquiesce  : 

"  Indeed,  I  dare  say  there  may  be  something  in 
that." 

But,  whether  due  to  the  excess  of  his  homage  to 
the  humble  Abigail,  or  to  whatever  other  cause,  it  is 
clear,  as  the  evening  goes  on,  that  Mr.  Clarence  has  no 
intention  of  paying  his  respects  to  his  friends  in  their 
box.  When  he  leaves  the  theater,  which  is  a  few 
minutes  before  the  Bramshill  party  get  under  way, 
it  is  in  company  with  his  cousin. 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  131 

His  conduct  excites  in  Lady  Bramsliill's  mind  a 
voluble  astenishment  mixed  with  inconsistent  indig- 
nation. It  is  inconsistent  since  she  ought  to  be  glad 
at  a  trait  which  so  clearly  proves  the  young  man's 
indifference  toward  her  daughter.  When,  on  reach- 
ing the  delightful  freshness  of  the  open  air,  she  finds 
that  her  carriage  is  not  at  once  forthcoming,  the 
intention  she  had  earlier  in  the  evening  expressed  of 
"  drawing  "  Mrs.  Clarence — an  intention  then  only 
half  serious — takes  solid  consistence. 

"Doll  shall  go  to  the  Swan  and  see  what  has  hap- 
pened,— this  sort  of  thing  al\va}rs  comes  to  pass  if  one 
does  not  bring  a  footman, — and  we  will  ask  Lucy 
to  take  us  in  and  give  us  something  to  eat.  The 
theater  always  makes  me  ravenous  ;  does  not  it  you, 
Euphemia  ?  " 

Miss  Bramshill  offers  no  resistance  to  the  project, 
whatever  her  private  opinion  of  its  tactfulness  may 
be,  and  Honor's  protest  is  so  softly  uttered  that  it 
goes  quite  unheeded.  Honor  has  been  so  much  used 
all  her  life  to  acquiesce  in  actions  and  projects  which 
she  dislikes  that  she  has  become  a  past-mistress  in  the 
art  of  concealing  her  emotions.  No  one  who  saw  the 
serenity  of  her  serious  eyes  and  the  sweet  civility  of 
her  smile  would  guess  the  profound  distaste  and 
shrinking  with  which  she  is  driven  into  sharing  this 
injudicious  forcing  of  the  privacy  of  one  whose  first 
impression  of  her  she  would  so  fain  have  had  a  favor- 
able one.  And  worse — far  worse  than  the  suffering 
caused  by  this  intrusion  on  his  mother,  is  the  wound 
from  which  her  deep,  shy  pride  bleeds  at  thus  brazenly 
going  to  seek  one  who  had  so  plainly  shunned  her. 


132  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

At  first  it  seems  as  if  she  were  to  escapa  the  ordeal, 
through  the  fact  of  their  being  unable  to  gain  ad- 
mittance. The  house  stands  black  and  silent  among 
its  black  and  silent  neighbors,  lifting  its  little  smoke- 
less chimney-stack  to  the  starred  canopy  of  the 
night. 

"They  have  gone  to  bed!  It  is  all  shut  up!  "  says 
Eupheraia,  surveying  the  frontage.  "There  is  not 
even  a  light  in  the  area!" 

"  It  is  a  little  late,  isn't  it  ?  "  puts  in  Honor.  "  I 
heard  the  church  clock  strike  half-past  twelve  as  we 
came  by." 

But  no  one  who  hears  the  calmness  of  the  tiny 
protest  would  guess  the  ardor  of  prayer  for  its  suc- 
cess in  turning  the  leader  of  the  expedition  from  her 
insensate  purpose  with  which  it  is  uttered.  It  has 
the  fate  of  many  other  prayers. 

"Impossible!"  cries  Lady  Bramshill,  returning 
with  fresh  vigor  to  the  bell-pull;  "  Harry  and  little 
Miss  What's-her-name  must  at  all  events  be  up. 
Why,  they  were  not  three  minutes  ahead  of  us; 
and  " — her  thoughts  reverting  fondly  to  the  thought 
of  refreshment — "  they  could  not  go  to  bed  without 
something  to  eat.  Ah,  I  thought  so!  Here  comes 
somebody  at  last!  " 

The  "  somebody "  is  a  distrustful  maid-servant, 
who  opens  the  d<w>r  parsimoniously  and  on  the  chain, 
and  looks  doubtfully  out. 

"  It  is  all  right!"  cries  the  leader  of  the  invaders 
jubilantly.  "  You  may  let  us  in.  We  are  not  bur- 
glars. We  are  only  four  hungry  ladies  come  to  ask 
for  a  sandwich.  Your  mistress  is  not  crone  to  bed  ? 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  133 

No!  I  thought  not.  Ah!" — turning  a  triumphant 
look  over  her  shoulder  at  her  followers  as  she  crosses 
the  threshold — "  who  Avas  right  now  ?  " 

To  one  of  those  followers,  who  steps  along  re- 
luctant and  hindmost,  they  seem  dreadfully  numer- 
ous, voluminous,  impertinent,  as  they  rustle  along  a 
narrow  passage  to  the  back  den  on  the  ground  floor, 
for  which,  when  her  son  spends  an  evening  at  home, 
3Irs.  Clarence  forsakes  her  own  prettier  and  more 
cheerful  domain. 

Terribly  intrusive  they  seem  as  she  catches  sight 
of  the  little  family  tableau  during  the  second  before 
the  three  persons  who  compose  it  become  aware  of 
their  presence.  It  is  clear  that  the  two  theater-goers 
are  only  this  moment  returned.  Abigail  is  still  in 
her  opera  cloak,  and  Harry  leaning  over  the  back  of 
his  mother's  chair,  in  which  she  lies  all  white  and 
muslin-clad.  Her  garment  is  a  dainty  hybrid  be- 
tween the  homeliness  of  a  bedroom  dressing  gown 
and  the  assumptions  of  a  tea  gown.  She  is  lifting  a 
small  face  of  listening  adoration  to  him.  At  the 
noise  of  the  entering  party  both  naturally  look 
toward  the  door,  and  the  hindmost  of  the  invaders 
has  not  her  view  so  obstructed  by  those  who  precede 
her  as  to  miss  the  change  of  expression  in  both  faces. 
The  first  emotion  which  the  countenance  of  the 
woman  whom  she  is  so  deeply  desirous  to  propitiate 
exhibits,  when  turned  upon  her,  is  one  of  unmistak- 
able dismay  and  disgust. 

Clarence  had  fully  meant  to  have  related  to  his 
mother  the  fact  of  Miss  Lisle's  presence  in  St. 
Gratian — an  intention  the  less  meritorious  on  his 


134  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

part  since,  if  be  had  not  done  so,  Abigail  would  cer- 
tainly have  saved  him  the  trouble.  Even  if  there 
were  no  Abigail,  bubbling  over  with  admiring  curi- 
osity, Mrs.  Clarence  could  not  fail  to  discover  it  for 
herself  in  twenty-four  hours. 

He  has  established  himself  behind  her  chair  with 
that  very  view,  choosing  that  to  some  degree  con- 
cealed position  in  order  to  utter  his  piece  of  news 
with  a  more  natural  and  degage  air.  And  now  that 
thing  which,  of  all  others,  he  would  most  dislike 
and  deprecate  has  happened. 

Without  being  given  any  time  to  prepare  her  in 
any  degree  for  the  shock,  he  sees  the  introduction  to 
his  mother,  which  lie  would  have  prepared  Avith  so 
trembling  a  care,  forced  upon  her  at  an  untimely 
hour  with  unseemly  brusqueness,  and  in  the  manner 
most  of  all  certain  to  arouse  her  prejudices  against 
the  person  so  forced,  or  forcing  herself,  upon  her 
acquaintance!  How  will  his  mother — already,  as  he 
divines  her,  more  than  ready  to  disapprove — con- 
jecture the  profound  annoyance  in  the  girl's  heart, 
the  deep  mortification  which  he  guesses,  under  the 
mask  of  her  small,  self-contained  face  ?  One  thing 
he  is  spared;  he  does  not  suspect  the  extremely  bitter 
drop  which  he  himself  contributes  to  his  love's  cup  in 
that  humiliating  moment,  and  which  flows  from  the 
look  in  his  own  face  as  she  first  catches  sight  of  it 
above  his  mother's  head — a  look  of  dismay  at  least 
as  profound  as  his  parent's. 

"  Here  is  a  surprise  for  you  !  "  cries  Lady  Brams- 
hill,  coming  in  with  a  frou-frou  of  her  ample  skirts, 
and  a  total  absence  of  misgiving  as  to  her  welcome- 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  135 

ness,  as,  indeed,  nothing  would  have  pleased  her 
better  than  to  have  the  same  trick  played  upon  her- 
self. "  There's  nothing  like  the  imprevu,  is  there  ? 
The  girls  said  that  you  would  be  in  bed  ;  but  I  knew 
better.  I  remembered  what  a  hopeless  rake  you 
always  were  !  Ha,  ha  !" 

Mrs.  Clarence  has  risen,  and  is  holding  out  a 
mechanical  hand  to  the  personified  garrulity  before 
her.  But  her  e}res  have  gone  beyond  her — beyond 
Euphemia,  beyond  the  bugled  widow — and  are  resting 
on  the  small  and  motionless  figure  standing  just 
within  the  door. 

The  two  women  who  hold  Clarence's  life-strings 
are  looking  at  each  other,  and,  with  a  sharp  pang  of 
foreboding,  he  sees  that  on  one  side  at  least  there  is 
no  prepossession  in  the  glance. 

"You  do  not  mind  our  taking  you  by  storm?" 
asks  Lady  Brarnshill,  for  even  in  her  the  hostess' 
manner  is  breeding  a  slight  misgiving.  "Of  course, 
it  is  most  audacious  of  us  ;  but  what  is  the  use  of 
having  friends  if  one  may  not  take  liberties  with 
them  that  one  cannot  with  mere  acquaintances? 
And  if  you  do  not  want  us,  make  no  scruple  of  send- 
ing us  away.  The  carriage  will  be  here  in  a  minute." 

This  suggestion,  indicating  a  lack  of  cordiality  in 
her  manner,  brings  Mrs.  Clarence  round  : 

"  Oh,  pray  sit  down  !  "  she  says,  with  a  civility 
whose  formality  rings  ominously  in  her  son's  ears. 
"  I  was  a  little  startled  at  first.  Will  not  these  ladies 
sit  down?" 

"  I  am  forgetting  my  manners !  "  cries  Lady 
Bramshill,  not  yet  quite  reassured  as  to  the  wisdom 


1S6  SCYLLA  OR  CIIARYBDIS  ? 

of  her  freak,  and  carrying  it  off,  as  her  daughter 
feels,  with  a  double  portion  of  good-humor  and 
bounce.  "  I  must  present  3rou  all  to  each  other. 
This,"  indicating  the  elder  lady,  "  is  Mrs.  Dynevor, 
with  whom  we  lived  and  loved  at  Calcutta  ;  and  this 
is  Miss  Lisle,  who,  I  find,  is  an  old  acquaintance  of 
Harry's.  By  the  bye,  Harry,  what  did  you  mean  by 
not  coming  to  speak  to  us  at  the  play?"  Then,, 
feeling  that  her  question  lias  fallen  mysteriously  flat, 
she  goes  on  :  "  What  delicious-looking  sandwiches  ! 
When  first  we  came  home  from  India,  people  asked 
us  what  were  the  changes  that  struck  us  most  in 
England.  The  judge  said  the  increase  in  the  number 
of  omnibuses  ;  and  I  said  the  improvement  in  sand- 
wiches ! " 

This  rigmarole  string  of  remarks  arouses  Mrs. 
Clarence  to  a  sense  of  her  duties,  and  she  moves 
toward  a  table  spread  with  slight  cold  foods,  iced 
water,  and  a  claret-jug.  As  she  does  so  her  pocket 
handkerchief  slips,  unperceived  by  her,  to  the  floor, 
and  Honor,  who  has  been  drawn  forward  to  be  pre- 
sented, stoops,  and,  picking  it  up,  restores  it  to  her. 

There  seems  to  Harry  a  deprecating  grace  in  the 
action — a  touching  indication  of  reverence  and 
apology  that  must  soften  the  flintiest  heart. 

No  one  can  deny  that  there  is  also  grace — since  she 
can  do  nothing  ungracefully — in  Mrs.  Clarence's  mode 
of  reception  of  the  attention,  faultless  politeness  in 
her  thanks,  and  regrets  at  having  given  trouble.  But 
if  there  is  grace,  there  is — too  perceptible  to  her  son's 
anxious  eyes  and  ears — frost,  too.  To  Honor,  since 
she  sees  his  mother  for  the  first  time,  the  degree  of 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  137 

chilliness  or  warmth  of  her  ordinary  manner  must  be 
unknown.  But  her  senses  have  been  rendered  sharper 
than  most  people's  by  her  outdoor  life,  and  by  her 
long  habit  of  looking  and  listening  in  field  and  wood 
for  the  small  noises  and  light  movements  of  the  lesser 
peoples  of  earth  and  air.  It  may  be  the  quick  sense 
of  that  chill  which  sends  her  back  to  her  first  position 
near  the  door. 

All  through  the  one-sided  dialogue  (a  bull !)  car- 
ried on  between  his  mother  and  Lady  Bramshill, 
Harry  hears  her  few  short,  soft  sentences  dropped 
between  the  paragraphs  of  the  widow's  fluent  com- 
ments on  the  night's  entertainment  and  its  heroine. 

O 

"  Did  you  see  that  huge  diamond  sun  which  slie 
•wore  on  her  corsage?"  asks  Mrs.  Dynevor.  "You 

know  who  gave  it  her  ?  The  Duke  of  ,  and 

they  say  that  the  diamonds  were  taken  out  of  that 
historic  couronne  fermee  of  the  duchess'  which 
belonged  to  Catherine  of  Russia." 

"  Yes,  I  know  that  they  say  so." 

"  They  were  replaced  by  paste,  but  as  the  duchess 
does  not  know  that,  she  no  doubt  wears  her  coronet 
quite  as  happily  as  before  ;  but  if  ever  she  finds  out, 
I  would  not  be  he." 

"  I  should  think  that  she  despised  him  too  much  to 
care." 

"  H'm  !  no  doubt,  no  doubt  !  So  disgraceful  in  a 
man  of  his  age,  too  !  But,  still,  diamonds  are  always 
diamonds  !  " 

"  When  everything  else  worth  having  in  one's  life 
had  gone,  I  think  the  diamonds  might  go,  too." 

She  savs  it  in  a  verv  low  voice,  and  with  an  accent 


138  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

of  concentrated  scorn,  yet,  low  as  her  voice  is,  he 
knows  that  his  mother  has  heard  the  words.  To  him, 
and  surely  also  to  her,  they  come  stamped  with  the 
seal  of  the  girl's  high-minded  purit}'.  Yet  he  would 
have  been  glad  that  the  first  specimen  of  his  love's 
never  very  abounding  talk  which  comes  to  his  parent's 
ears  should  have  been  on  a  less  dubious  theme.  He 
has  presently  cause  to  deepen  and  enlarge  this  wish. 

"  Well,"  says  the  widow,  with  a  lenient  laugh 
dedicated  to  the  ducal  follies,  "  he  has  more  excuse 
for  his  weakness  than  men  often  have.  Such  coarse, 
ngly  creatures  befool  them  !  but  she  is  certainly 
extremely  pretty  and  ladylike,  so  like  a  Greuze." 

"  She  is  not  at  all  pretty  off  the  stage." 

"You  have  seen  her  off  the  stage?"  with  greatly 
heightened  interest. 

"  Yes." 

"  And  she  is  not  really  prett\T  ?  " 

"  When  she  speaks  she  is  not  at  all  pretty." 

"Who  is  not  at  all  pretty  when  she  speaks?"  asks 
Lady  Bramshill,  beginning  to  discern  the  extremely 
intermittent  nature  of  the  attention  which  Mrs. 
Clarence  is  giving  to  her  own  converse. 

"  Poppy  de  Vere,"  replies  the  widow;  "but" — 
incredulously — "  I  can  scarcely  believe  it.  Who 
told  you  so  ?  " 

"  I  have  spoken  to  her." 

"  You  have  spoken  to  her  ?  spoken  to  Poppy  de 
Vcre  ?  " 

"  She  stayed  at  my  father's  house.  Her  husband 
is  a  racing  friend  of  my  father's." 

The  widow's  jaw  drops.     She   is  not  acquainted 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ?  139 

with  Honor's  history,  and  the  calmness  with  which  she 
proclaims  an  acquaintance  with  the  too  illustrious 
Poppy  strikes  her  for  an  instant  silent.  But  only  for 
an  instant.  A  fire  of  eager  questions  follows  : 

"  Is  she  nice  ?  At  least,  not  nice,  really,  of  course — 
at  all  refined,  I  mean  ?  or  like  a  lady  ?  Would  3-011 
ever  guess  ?  " 

"  She  is  not  at  all  nice.  She  sits  with  her  feet  on 
the  chimneypiece.  She  swears  a  good  deal.  It 
would  be  impossible  for  anyone  to  be  less  nice." 

"  But  why  on  earth  " — astonishment  getting  the 
upper  hand  of  good  manners  in  this  searching  query — 
"  did  you  consent  to  meet  her  ?  Why  did  not  you 
go  away  ? " 

"  I  did  not  know  that  she  was  corning  ;  but  if  I  had 
I  should  not  have  gone  away.  My  father  would 
have  been  displeased,  and  she  did  not  do  me  any 
harm." 

She  says  it  with  the  quietude  of  complete  convic- 
tion, and  then  there  is  a  pause.  The  other  dialogues, 
having  for  some  minutes  paid  their  tribute  to  the 
superior  interest  of  this  one  by  perceptible  slacken- 
ing, are  now  dropped  into  silence.  It  is  broken  only 
by  an  inaudible — save  to  her  son  and  the  person 
addressed — murmur  from  Mrs.  Clarence  to  Abigail, 
which  Harry  knows  to  be  a  suggestion  to  his  young 
cousin  to  go  to  bed.  He  knows,  too,  that  the  sug- 
gestion has  been  dictated  by  the  feeling  that  the  con- 
versation of  his  heart's  high  pure  lady  is  not  fit  for 
her  to  listen  to.  The  conviction  is  an  inexpressibly 
bitter  one. 

Abigail  steals  reluctantly  away,  and  ten  more  heavy, 


140  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

flat  minutes  follow  before  the  welcome  sound  of 
wheels  on  the  pavement  outside  announces  that 
deliverance  has  come.  Deliverance?  Yes.  But  yet 
it  is  a  salvation  that,  if  the  young  man  do  not  make 
some  effort  to  prevent  it,  will  involve  his  letting  his 
love  pass  from  under  his  churlish  roof  without  one 
word  of  the  reverent,  glad  welcome  which,  if  Fate 
had  not  played  him  so  scurvy  a  trick  as  to  the  manner 
of  her  coming,  he  would  have  offered  her.  Even  if 
his  mother  perceive  the  maneuver  by  which  his  end 
is  gained,  he  must  make  himself  elbow  and  voice 
room  for  one  little  word  to  her. 

The  opportunity  he  seeks  comes  quite  naturally 
after  all.  For  just  two  minutes  they  stand  on  the 
doorstep  together  and  alone.  But  with  the  come 
opportunity,  the  power  goes.  What  can  he  say  in 
the  meager  space  that  will  be  his,  good  enough, 
respectful  enough,  tender  enough,  to  remove  the  oold 
and  bitter  impression  which  she  must  be  taking 
awajr  with  her  from  his  home  ?  While  he  hesitates,  a 
minute  and  a  half  of  the  two  minutes  go  by.  And 
she  does  not  help  him.  She  has  suffered  far  more 
than  he  :  suffered  in  her  maidenly  dignity,  in  her 
self-respect  ;  and  though  her  face  keeps  its  trained 
grave  sweetness,  without  any  trace  of  resentment, 
yet  she  cannot  quite  compass  speech.  And  she  is 
never  a  great  talker. 

Lady  Bramshill's  heavy  foot — she  had  gone  bark 
for  one  of  those  last  words,  of  which,  unlike  Honor, 
she  has  always  such  a  copious  stock — is  heard  in  the 
little  hall  close  behind  them. 

There  is  onlv  half  a  moment  left.     And  vet  into 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  141 

half  a  minute  many  a  pregnant  sentence  that  has 
altered  the  whole  lie  of  a  life  has  been  packed  ere 
now.  His  tardy  utterance,  when  it  comes,  can  hardly 
have  that  effect. 

"  What  a  very  fine  night !  " 

"  Yes  ;  but  the  farmers  are  crying  out  for  rain." 

And  she  is  gone.  He  returns  to  the  smoking  room 
profoundly  dissatisfied,  but  with  a  heart  that,  under 
its  disgusted  ache,  has  yet  a  leap  in  it.  He  finds  his 
mother  standing,  with  her  back  turned  toward  him, 
leaning  against  the  lintel  of  the  French  window, 
which,  so  suave  is  the  breath  of  the  lovely  summer 
night,  still  stands  wide  open.  Her  head  is  propped 
against  the  wall,  and  there  is  dejection  in  the  very 
hang  of  her  diaphanous  draperies.  He  possesses 
himself  softly  of  one  of  her  limply  pendent 
hands. 

"  You  will  catch  cold." 

"  I  do  not  think  so." 

A  little  pause.  He  had  rather  that  she  should  be 
the  one  to  begin  the  subject ;  but  since  she  will  not, 
the  power  of  self-control  being  suddenly  withdrawn 
from  him,  he  must  himself  rush  into  it.  He  does  it 
by  the  monosyllable  "  Well  ?  "  Only  a  monosyllable, 
yet  so  full  of  passionate  expectation  that  her  heart 
stands  still.  She  knows  that  one  of  the  opportunities 
of  her  life  has  come — one  of  those  opportunities  that, 
if  we  once  let  slip,  we  can  never,  so  swiftly  do  they 
run,  overtake. 

"Well,  dear?"  the  vague  returning  of  his  own 
•word  upon  him  is,  as  she  knows,  only  a  putting  off 

the  evil  day. 
10 


142  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

"  Do  yon — do  you  see  the  likeness  that  I  have  told 
you  of  ?  " 

Perhaps  if  he  had  worded  his  bid  for  admiration 
differently,  she  might  have  been  better  able  to  rise  to 
it.  But  against  his  demand  thus  made  her  whole 
being  rises  in  unconquerable  revolt.  It  is  herself, 
then,  who  is  to  be  made  the  instrument  of  her  murder. 

"Miss  Lisle  and  I  are  both  little  pale  black 
women,"  she  answers,  in  a  very,  very  small  voice. 
"  I  do  not  think  that  I  see  any  other  likeness." 

There  is  a  pause.  He  has  dropped  her  hand  and 
turned  away,  and  she  knows  that  she  has  let  her 
priceless  opportunity  go,  and  that,  at  one  of  the  most 
crucial  points  of  her  life's  road,  she  has  taken  the 
wrong  turning. 

She  knows  it  better  still  next  morning,  when,  soon 
after  breakfast,  she  sees  him  set  off  in  riding-breeches, 
and  with  his  whip  under  his  arm,  toward  the  stables 
where  he  keeps  his  horse.  He  had  come  down  late  to 
breakfast,  when  Abigail  and  she, had  all  but  finished 
that  repast,  which,  in  Mrs.  Clarence's  case,  on  this 
occasion,  is  a  mere  form,  and  he  had  begged  them 
not  to  wait  for  him,  so  that  she  has  scarcely  ex- 
changed words  with  him. 

She  had  meant  to  have  taken  some  step — even  a 
whole  sleepless  night  had  not  suggested  to  her  its 
exact  nature — toward  repairing  her  false  move,  and 
now  it  is  too  late.  He  has  gone  unpropitiated,  full 
of  resentment  and  wounded  feeling,  to  have  balm 
poured  on  his  hurts  by  that  hand  which,  had  she 
been  wise,  she  would  have  controlled  herself  into 
taking  into  her  own. 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  143 

"  How  early  he  is  going  out  riding  to-day  !"  cries 
Abigail,  from  her  window  post.  "  What  a  nice  flat 
back  he  has,  and  how  well  his  legs  look  in  those 
gaiters  !  Quite  a  poem  !  " — laughing — "  as  that  Miss 
Lisle  said  about  Poppy  de  Vere's." 

"Jliss  Lisle  said  so?"  in  an  extremely  shocked 
voice.  "  I  do  not  think  that  it  was  Miss  Lisle  ;  it 
was  the  other  lad}' — the  jetty  one." 

But,  despite  this  almost  confident  rehabilitation  of 
poor  Honor,  Mrs.  Clarence  keeps  a  silent  inward  con- 
viction that  the  silly  and  objectionable  remark  made 
had  issued  from  Miss  Lisle's  lips.  What  an  abyss  it 
opens  between  herself  and  the  girl  who  could  be 
supposed  capable  of  uttering  it !  She  lapses  into  a 
silence,  whose  distress  is  heightened  by  this  tiny 
incident,  which,  so  little  do  we  gauge  the  force  of 
our  own  light  words,  passes  so  entirely  from  Abi- 
gail's mind  that  her  next  remark  is  a  wish  that  the 
Vaughans  would  let  in  their  dog,  as  "  he  has  been 
waiting  at  the  door  for  ages,"  coupled  with  the 
observation  that  "  the  footman  and  he  are  evidently 
great  friends,  but  that  he  is  afraid  of  the  house- 
maid !  " 


CHAPTER  X. 

MEANWHILE,  trotting  along  the  green  grass 
margin  of  the  white  highroad,  cutting  across  pasture 
lauds,  and  skirting  hay-meadows,  Clarence  is  making 
but  a  brief  thing  of  the  interval  between  the  dowdy, 
semi-animate  little  town  and  the  newly  painted  and 
smartened-up  and  generally  alive  and  teeming 
country  house  which  is  his  goal.  He  reaches  it  only 
just  in  time,  for  as  he  comes  in  sight  of  the  hall 
door  he  sees  three  just  mounted  people  in  the  act,  or 
hovering  on  the  verge  of  the  act,  of  setting  forth  on 
a  ride. 

The  lateness  of  the  young  brother  who  is  to  escort 
the  two  girls,  which  Clarence  learns  from  the  hang- 
dog air  of  the  culprit  under  a  rather  needlessly  austere 
rebuke  from  his  sister,  is  the  only  reason  why  he  has 
not  missed  tfie  party  altogether,  since  they  would 
have  taken  a  road  different  from  that  by  which  he 
had  approached.  Although  he  has  lacked  Miss 
Lisle's  society  for  all  but  one  week  of  his  life  without 
any  very  perceptible  consequent  diminution  of  flesh 
and  appetite,  yet  to  have  lost  this  one  more  morning 
seems  to  him,  now  that  he  has  just  escaped  doing  so, 
a  calamity  greater  than  he  could  have  borne. 

Her  face  is  at  first  almost  hidden  from  him,  stoop- 
ing toward  a  large  white  terrier,  which  he  recog- 
nizes as  Adolphus'  Nipper,  and  which  is  standing  up 

144 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  145 

on  hind  legs  against  the  leg  of  the  horse,  evidently 
requesting  to  be  taken  up.  That  such  a  request 
should  be  complied  with  would,  under  the  circum- 
stances, have  never  occurred  to  the  young  man,  and 
it  is  with  stupefaction  that  he  now  sees  him  lifted 
by  a  groom  and  placed  under  Miss  Lisle's  arm. 

"  Why  do  you  carry  him  ?"  he  asks,  going  quickly 
round  to  her ;  and  this  natural  question  solves  the 
difficulty  of  how  to  open  a  conversation  in  which  the 
contretemps  of  last  night  must  be  fresh  in  both  minds. 
"  Why  do  you  carry  him  ?  He  is  perfectly  well  able 
to  run." 

"  I  know  that  he  is  ;  he  likes  running  with  horses 
or  a  carriage." 

"  Then  why  do  3*011  carry  him  ?  " 

"  He  is  rather  an  eccentric  character,"  she  answers, 
breaking  into  one  of  her  slight  grave  smiles,  "and  he 
declines  to  come  at  all  unless  he  is  carried  for  the 
first  hundred  yards.  And  one  would  not  " — with  an 
affectionate  pressure  of  her  elbow  against  his  side — 
"  lose  the  pleasure  of  his  company  for  such  a  trifle." 

"  I  have  tried  to  persuade  Miss  Lisle,"  says  Euphe- 
mia,  putting  her  horse  in  motion,  "  to  let  me  at  least 
take  turns  in  carrying  him.  No  one  can  imagine 
how  disagreeable  it  is  until  they  have  tried  it  ;  and 
he  moults  so  much  that  he  covers  one  with  white 
hairs." 

"  It  is  all  the  more  reason  why  he  should  not  cover 
two"  replies  Honor  quietly. 

The  young  man  involuntarily  turns  his  head  over 
his  shoulder  as  she  speaks.  He  has  had  no  invitation 
to  join  the  party,  but  as  he  has  on  several  previous 


146  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

occasions  ridden  with  members  of  the  Bramshill 
family,  it  seems  taken  for  granted  that  he  should  do 
so  now. 

"  We  have  been  rather  alarmed  of  late  by  signs 
of  a  new  development  of  Nipper's  tyranny,"  says 
Euphemia  :  "  an  inclination  to  refuse  to  set  off  even 
on  a  walk  without  being  carried  for  his  usual  hun- 
dred yards." 

"  I  should  resist  that,"  replies  Clarence.  "He  is 
young  and  strong,  and  has  no  excuse  of  age  or 
delicacy." 

But  lie  is  not  thinking  of  what  he  is  saying.  He 
is  thinking  of  the  "  neat  excellence"  witli  which  that 
backward  glance  had  shown  him  that  the  feat  of 
carrying  a  large  dog  under  her  bridle-arm  by  a  }Toung 
lady  on  a  horse  inclined  to  be  fidgety  may  be  per- 
formed. He  is  thinking,  too,  of  how  an  alteration  in 
tlie  order  of  their  going  may  be  effected  without  a 
too  perceptible  maneuver  on  his  part. 

A  kindly  gate  with  an  obstructive  fastening  gives 
him  the  opportunity  he  desires ;  for  Miss  Lisle, 
growing  tired  of  the  long  fumbling,  puts  her  horse 
at  the  low  fence  which  skirts  the  field  into  which 
they  are  seeking  entrance,  and  Harry  thinks  himself 
justified  in  following  her.  Euphemia,  who,  like 
many  large  and  domineering  personalities,  is  a  timid 
horsewoman,  declines  to  follow  suit ;  so  the  other 
two — Honor  having  happily  rid  herself  of  her  in- 
cumbrance  before  her  jump — ride  slowly  on. 

Clarence  has  secured  the  tete-d-tete  he  has  coveted, 
but  for  the  first  few  moments  he  seems  incapable  of 
making  any  use  of  it.  They  have  crossed  a  little 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  147 

pasture,  and  entered  a  wood,  before  he  is  delivered 
of  the  not  very  pregnant  remark  : 

"  There  is  quite  as  much  variety  in  the  character 
of  dogs  as  in  that  of  people." 

"  Quite." 

There  is  nothing  abrupt  or  intentionally  shutting 
up  in  the  monosyllable,  but  it  does  not  lead  to  any- 
thing. Is  there — or  is-it  his  guilty  fancy  ? — a  slight 
shade,  of  reticent  dignity  in  his  companion's  manner 
which  differentiates  it  from  her  Eastshire  one,  quiet 
as  that  was  ?  An  allusion  to  last  night  will  perhaps 
clear  up  the  self-put  question. 

"  You  got  home  all  right  last  night  ?  " 

A  sprightlier-minded  person  than  Miss  Lisle 
might  well  have  inquired  whether,  had  she  not  got 
home  all  right,  she  would  be  likely  to  be  now  riding 
by  his  side  through  the  wood's  green  light. 

But  Honor  is  not  sprightly.  She  merely  replies  : 
"Quite  right,  thank  you  ;"  and  again  there  seems  a 
brick  wall  at  the  end  of  the  sentence. 

But  if  there  is,  it  is,  to  his  surprise,  she  who  over- 
climbs  it. 

"  After  having  seen  us  together,  do  you  still  think 
I  am  like — Mrs.  Clarence  ?  " 

She  does  not  look  at  him  as  she  puts  the  question, 
which  might,  indeed,  seem  to  challenge  an  examina- 
tion of  her  features,  and  she  hesitates  before  the  last 
two  words,  as  if  in  doubt  whether  to  say  "  your 
mother  "  or  "  Mrs.  Clarence." 

That  she. ends  by  choosing  the  more  formal  title 
proves  to  the  young  man  that  she  is  aware  of  her  own 
overnight  failure  to  recommend  herself  to  his  parent. 


148  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

"  I  think  it  even  more  startling  " — emphaticall}'-. 

She  is  so  little  in  the  habit  of  showing  emotion, 
that  he  dares  hardly  believe  that  he  detects,  by  a 
deepened  dimple  in  the  only  cheek  that  he  can  specu- 
late upon,  that  his  answer  gives  her  pleasure. 

"  And  did  she  herself  see  it  ?  Have  you  ever  sug- 
gested it  to  her  ?  " 

An  almost  imperceptible  sinking  of  the  voice  alone 
reveals  that  the  answer  to  this  question  is  of  any 
import  to  the  speaker.  He  knows  that  she  sees  the 
lame  unreadiness  of  his  response. 

"People — don't  you  think? — very  seldom  know 
what  they  themselves  are  like.  She  sees  it  to  a  cer- 
tain extent,  but  not  to  the  degree  that  I  do." 

He  has  no  indication  as  to  whether  the  reply  dis- 
appoints her,  since  at  the  moment  she  is  now  ward- 
ing off  from  her  quite  averted  face  with  her  whip 
handle  an  arching  briar  branch,  rough  with  swell- 
ing rosebuds,  which  is  threatening  to  sweep  across 
her. 

When  she  does  speak,  it  is  in  a  tone  of  composed 
but  evidently  heartfelt  admiration. 

"  She  is  a  very  beautiful  lady  !  " 

The  deep  respect  and  profound  appreciation  evi- 
denced by  both  the  phrase  and  the  tone  that  carries 
it  make  flash  back  on  his  memory  by  contrast  the 
slightingness  of  his  mother's  words  :  "  Miss  Lisle  and 
I  are  both  little  pale  black  women.  I  do  not  think  I 
see  much  other  likeness  " — words  in  which  the  depre- 
ciation is  not  the  less  thorough  because  she  has 
coupled  herself  with  the  person  denigree.  We  have 
all  in  our  day  practiced  this  subtle  mode  of  aspersion. 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  149 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  compares  his  mother 
in  his  mind  wnfavorably  with  another  woman. 

Even  if  that  mother's  verdict  upon  Honor  had  been 
as  flattering  as  the  girl's  upon  her,  the  reverential 
courtesy  toward  all  women  in  which  he  has  been 
from  infancy  bred,  and  which  conies  doubly  easy  to 
him  in  the  case  of  the  woman  he  loves,  would  pre- 
vent his  telling  her  so  to  her  face.  Yet  to  his  vicar- 
iously guilty  conscience — guilty,  that  is,  of  another's 
offense — it  seems  that  the  silence  which  follows  her 
remark  must  appear  to  her  an  ominious  one.  He  can 
only  answer  it  by  a  grateful  look,  whose  quality  she 
very  probably  does  not  recognize. 

They  pass  on  in  silence  through  the  sunshot  green 
tangle,  where  the  ride  is  here  and  there  so  overfluug, 
overgrown  by  encroaching  undergrowth,  that  they 
have  to  pass  along  in  single  file. 

He  has  come  up  with  her  again,  after  one  such 
short  separation,  to  find  by  the  serenity  of  her 
bright  face  how  entirely  any  little  mortification,  if 
it  ever  existed,  has  been  shone  and  sung  out  to  her. 
He  remembers  her  having  once  told  him  that  she 
never  could  be  very  unhappy  out  of  doors.  Her  chin 
is  a  little  lifted,  and  her  lips  apart  to  drink  in  the 
filtered  radiance,  and  her  pretty  ears  are  cocked  to 
disentangle  the  talk  of  the  birds — to  him,  as  to  most 
of  us,  a  pleasing  but  unintelligible  babel  ;  to  her 
the  conversation  of  intimate  and  well-understood 
friends. 

"  Do  you  hear  the  wood  wren  ?  "  she  asks. 

"  I  have  no  doubt  that  I  do," — laughing — "  but  I 
could  not  put  a  name  to  it." 


150  SCYLLA  OR  CIIARYBDIS  ? 

"  Oh,  yes,  yon  could.  It  says  Please  !  please  !  as 
if  begging  you  to  go  away." 

"  Does  it  ?  " 

"It  has  two  notes.  The  first  is  a  tick,  tick,  tick, 
with  a  long  p-r-r-r-h  at  the  end.  There  !  do  not  you 
hear  him?  You  cannot  mistake  him." 

"  Cannot  I  ?  " 

"  There  is  a  torn-tit  imitating  a  chiff-chaff." 

He  pulls  up  his  horse  and  strains  his  ears,  but  is 
quite  unable  to  pick  out  of  the  melodious  jumble 
about  and  above  him  the  tiny  mimicry  alluded  to. 

"It  is  so  odd  that  JTOU  cannot  hear  it !  "  she  says, 
with  a  smile  of  unaffected  surprise  ;  then,  afraid  of 
having  been  discourteous,  hastens  to  add  :  "I  always 
think  your  hearing  so  very  acute.  But  it  is  all  a 
matter  of  habit ;  and  the  way  in  which  birds  imitate 
one  another  is  very  puzzling.  It  was  a  long  time 
before  I  found  out  that  thrushes  imitate  owls." 

"Ztothey?" 

"  Yes  ;  not  accurately,  of  course,  but  still  cleverly. 
I  always  wonder  if  they  recognize  their  own  language 
when  it  is  so  garbled." 

"They  probably  feel  like  a  Frenchman  when  an 
Englishman  addresses  him  in  dog  French." 

"  It  was  so  odd  at  first  to  see  parrots  flying  about 
in  India.  We  spent  Christmas  Day  among  the  ruins 
of  Old  Delhi.  There  is  a  wonderful  ancient  tower 
there — but  no  doubt  you  know  that — which  they  call 
the  Kootub,  and  which  Mrs.  Bevis  wanted  to  see  ; 
and  we  took  our  luncheon,  and  ate  it  among  those 
miles  of  ruins  ;  and  the  green  parrots  flew  o  erhead, 
and  the  little  squirrels  rustled  and  played." 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  151 

She  pauses,  with  a  look  of  recollected  enjoyment. 
It  is  an  unusually  long  speech  for  her  ;  and  her  hearer 
takes  her  communicativeness  thankfully,  as  a  sign  of 
renewed  or  reviving  intimacy. 

"  You  liked  your  India,  didn't  you  ?  " 

"  Ye-es." 

"  That  sounds  a  little  doubtful." 

"I  liked  the  jungle  ;  I  liked  all  the  outdoor  part. 
You  know  I  always  hate  temples  and  sights  and 
ruins." 

He  feels  a  momentary  jar.  Memory  shows  him  in 
a  flash  a  contrasting  picture  of  his  mother  as  a  travel- 
ing companion — her  acute  and  cultivated  interest  in 
all  that  foreign  travel  can  show.  A  few  minutes  ago 
a  mental  comparison  had  set  her  at  a  disadvantage, 
now  the  balance  is  redressed. 

"  I  felt  my  ignorance  rather  oppressively  all  the 
time  that  I  was  there." 

He  draws  a  long  breath,  disarmed  and  reconciled 
to  the  barbarism  of  her  first  utterance  by  the — as  he 
feels — regretful  humility  of  her  second. 

"  More  than  you  do  in  England  ? "  in  a  tone  of 
delicate  sympathy,  not  attempting  to  deny  the  fact, 
which,  indeed,  seeing  his  acquaintance  with  the  furni- 
ture of  his  companion's  mind,  would  be  flattery  too 
patent,  but  trying  to  convey  a  soothing  implication 
that  the  evil  is  not  an  irremediable  one. 

"I  do  not  feel  it  at  all  in  England,"  replies  she  com- 
posedly ;  "  at  least " — with  a  tiny  grain  of  malice — 
"  I  did  not.until  you  took  such  pains  to  rub  it  well 
into  me  last  year  in  Eastshire." 

Again  he  feels  a  slight  sense  of  disappointment. 


152  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

He  bad  hoped  at  their  last  meeting  that  he  had  raised 
a  piquant  curiosity  in  her  slumbering  intelligence — 
slumbering  only  for  books,  so  awake  and  alert  in 
other  directions. 

"  I  suppose  it  was  the  contrast  with  Mrs.  Bevis  that 
did  it,"  pursues  she  reflectively.  "  I  cannot  think  how 
she  can  have  borne  my  company.  She  had  taken 
lessons  in  Hindustanee,  and  read  three  lives  of  Buddha 
and  two  histories  of  India.  She  had  everything  about 
every  conquei'or  of  India,  from  Bacchus — had  not  he 
something  to  say  to  India,  or  have  I  got  the  wrong 
end  of  the  stick  there,  too  ? — to  Lord  Clive,  at  her 
fingers'  ends." 

"She  is  a  very  intelligent  woman." 

Before  it  is  quite  uttered  he  knows  that  there  is 
something  at  once  trite  and  snubbing  in  the  shape  of 
the  sentence,  and  yet  enough  vexation  lingers  in  his 
system  to  prevent  his  arresting  its  utterance. 

But  the  shaft  glances  harmless  from  Honor's  armor. 

"Yes;  isn't  she?  "replies  she  warmly.  "I  was 
always  being  struck  afresh  with  it.  She  knew  all 
about  every  single  place  we  visited.  And  it  did  not 
give  me  the  impression  that  she  had  crammed,  either  ; 
it  all  came  so  naturally." 

He  does  not  know  what  possesses  him,  but  the 
preaching  instinct  still  seems  to  drive  him. 

"  And  it  gave  you  an  impulse  to  go  and  do  like- 
wise ?  " 

He  speaks  with  a  smile,  but  he  himself  knows  it  to 
be  of  a  governessy  qualit}r. 

She  looks  meditatively  in  front  of  her,  straight 
between  her  horse's  ears. 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  153 

"I  do  not  think  it  did,  in  the  least." 

There  is  a  pause,  his  delight  in  her — he  seems  to 
himself  to  have  forgotten  of  how  acute  a  (juality  it, 
was — again  slightly  rubbed. 

"  Are  you  aware  that  }TOU  are  contradicting  your- 
self ?  "  he  asks  half  playfully,  and  yet  with  a  subly- 
ing  seriousness.  "Five  minutes  ago  you  told  me  that 
you  had  been  oppressed  by  the  sense  of  your  own 
ignorance." 

Siie  shows  no  sign  of  discomfiture  at  this  confronta- 
tion with  her  own  utterance. 

"  One  may  be  oppressed  by  a  thing  without  feeling 
the  slightest  impulse  to  change  it,  because  one  knows 
it  would  be  perfectly  hopeless.  I  was  never  any  hand 
at  book-learning  when  I  was  a  child,  and  I  do  not 
think  I  am  likely  to  begin  now." 

Against  so  resolved  a  profession  of  ignorance  he 
feels  that  his  weapons  would  be  vain,  and  he  receives 
it  in  silence. 

Composed  as  she  looks,  his  muteness  may  fidget 
her,  for  she  presently  resumes  : 

"  I  think  that  there  must  be  other  people  like  me  ; 
but  if  not,  I  cannot  help  it — I  am  made  like  that." 

"  Yes  ?  " 

"  I  like,  I  always  have  liked,  and  I  always  shall 
like,  the  things  that  one  can  admire  and  love  without 
any  education  at  all — that  one  has  not  to  pump  up 
one's  appreciation  for  out  of  histories  and  catalogues 
and  biographies.  I  like  all  the  outside  things.  You 
must  remember  " — with  a  slight  beam  of  triumph  at 
this  clinching  argument — "  it  was  God  who  made 

o  o 

them,  and  he  did  not  make  the  others." 


154  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

"  No  ?  " 

"Now,  what  education" — the  victorious  beam 
browing  brighter — "does  it  require  to  enjoy  that?'''' 

She  has  pulled  up  her  horse  as  she  speaks,  and  is 
pointing  with  her  hunting  crop  down  a  glade  in  the 
wood  whose  mouth  they  have  reached  with  the  end 
of  her  sentence.  It  is  a  long  narrow  vista,  at  the 
present  moment  lilac-flushed  on  either  side  by  rhodo- 
dendrons in  full  bloom.  On  their  various-shaded 
flower  masses  the  flecking  sunshine  is  playing  through 
the  young  oak  trees  above  them. 

"  And  yet  it  is  only  an  educated  eye  that  would 
much  care  for  it." 

But  he  says  it  slackly,  his  tutoring  impulse 
swallowed  up  and  dissolved  in  pleasure. 

She  is  apparently  no  stickler  for  having  the  last 
word,  as  she  makes  no  rejoinder,  and  it  is  not  till 
their  horses  are  once  again  in  motion  that  she  next 
speaks — not  with  any  great  fluency  even  then  : 

"  I  suppose  that  your  mother — Mrs.  Clarence — is 
extremely  cultivated.  That  is  the  right  phrase, 
isn't  it?" 

"Cultivated!"  lie  repeats  thoughtfully.  "Well, 
no,  I  should  not  call  her  that.  She  is  no  great 
reader — except  of  books  of  devotion." 

"I  suppose  that  she  is  a  sort  of  saint" — a  little 
under  her  breath. 

He  does  not  answer,  except  by  a  smile  of  such 
reverent  tenderness  as  gives  the  heart  of  the  girl 
beside  him  a  slight  twinge  of  vague  pain.  But  that 
heart  is  too  generous  to  entertain  so  unworthy  a  guest 
for  a  second  longer  than  she  is  conscious  of  its  pres- 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  155 

ence.  If  she  were  to  die  for  it,  she  would  never  be 
able  to  summon  such  a  look  as  that  which  it  has  just 
worn  to  her  companion's  face.  But  that  is  her  fault, 
not  his. 

"My  mother  has  wonderfully  true  and  fine  instincts 
about  art  and  literature.  She  does  not,  as  you 
announced  that  you  did  the  first  time  I  had  the 
pleasure  of  meeting  you,  think  reading  'such  waste 
of  time.'  " 

He  is  smiling,  but  the  quality  of  his  smile  has 
entirely  changed. 

"  I  am  afraid  that  I  still  think  so,"  rejoins  she,  with 
a  gentle,  hopeless  steadfastness  that  makes  him 
laugh — "  at  least,  I  think  it  so  as  far  as  I  personally 
am  concerned.  Do  you  remember  what  pains  you 
took  to  enlighten  my  darkness  last  year  in  East- 
shire?" 

"  And  you  are  going  to  have  the  heart  to  tell  me 
that  all  my  labor  was  wasted  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  so,"  very  gravely  and  contritely,  but 
quite  firmly.  "Not  that  I  did  not  make  an  effort ; 
for  after  you  left  I  tried  conscientiously  to  read  some 
of  the  books  you  had  recommended  to  me,  and  I  did 
get  through  two  or  three  of  them." 

"  Get  through  ! ' ' 

"  Well,  I  assure  you  that  to  me  it  was  get  through, 
which,  I  suppose,  is  the  measure  of  my  hopelessness." 

Again  he  laughs,  but  a  little  ruefully. 

"  I  got  on  best  with  one  of  Browning's." 

"  Browning  ?  "  hopefully  and  surprisedly. 

"  It  was  '  How  They  Brought  the  Good  News 
frora ' » 


156  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

She  pauses. 

"Now,  where  was  it  that  they  brought  it  from? 
I  did  not  mind  that  one  much,  only  I  never  found 
out  what  the  good  news  was  ;  and  Mrs.  Bevis  was 
rather  vexed  with  me  for  saying  that  what  struck  me 
most  in  the  poem  was  the  disgraceful  way  in  which 
they  treated  their  horses.  It  was  almost  as  brutal  as 
the  military  ride  from  Berlin  to  Vienna." 

"  Not  quite  " — smiling.  "  '  Dirk  and  Joris  and  I ' 
had  at  least  more  excuse.  And  that  was  your  greatest 
achievement  ?  " 

"Yes  ;  I  stuck  fast  in  all  the  others.  But  then 
the  weather  was  extremely  fine,  and  we  had  to  break 
in  the  filly  ?  Do  you  remember  the  filly?  Well,  she 
is  going  to  make  a  first-rate  tandem-leader." 

Her  voice  is  not  more  raised  than  when  recounting 

o 

her  literary  disasters,  but  the  tone  of  warm  enthu- 
siasm that  runs  through  it  contrasts  racily  with  the 
flat  lugubriousness  of  her  preceding  confessions,  and 
he  laughs.  But  even  while  laughing  the  thought 
flashes  thankfully  across  him  that  his  mother  is  not 
within  earshot. 

It  must  be  the  result  of  the  freemasonry  we  often 
find  existing  between  our  brains  that  Honor's  next 
observation  shows  that  Mrs.  Clarence  had  got  into 
her  thoughts  at  the  same  instant  as  she  had  stepped 
into  her  son's. 

"Mrs.  Clarence  does  not  ride?" 

"  I  have  no  reason  for  supposing  that  she  ever  was 
in  the  saddle  in  her  life." 

"  She  does  not  know  or  care  anything  at  all  about 
horses,  I  dare  say  ?" 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  157 

"  You  would  think  her  culpably  ignorant." 

"  And  in  everything  else  she  would  think  me  cul- 
pably ignorant ! " 

This  is  so  perfectly  true  that  his  only  resource  is  to 
answer,  in  jocose  assent  : 

"  Culpably." 

But,  seeing  or  fancying  that  her  face  falls,  he  adds 
seriously,  and,  as  he  feels,  a  little  pedantically  : 

"  My  mother  never  judges  anyone  harshly." 

"  Not  even  us,  when  we  broke  in  upon  her  last 
night?" 

He  notices  that  she  never  looks  at  him  when  she 
puts  questions  to  him  about  his  mother. 

"Why  do  you  ask  that?"  with  a  precipitation 
which  he  feels  is  in  itself  an  answer  to  her  question. 
"  Sue  was  taken  by  surprise.  She  is  a  very  shy 
woman,  and  lives  very  much  out  of  the  world.  You 
must  not  attach  importance  to  any  indications  of — 
of — dism — of  surprise  that  she  showed." 

They  have  left  the  wood,  and  entered  a  lane 
scarcely  less  vocal  than  the  woodland  they  have 
quitted.  A  thrush  close  to  them  is  singing  on  a 
bough,  voluble  one  moment,  silent  the  next,  listening 
apparently  to  a  lark,  faint  with  distance — a  lark 
playing  its  little  instrument  with  muted  strings. 

He  would  fain  hope  that  it  is  her  listening  to  the 
music  that  keeps  her  silent,  not  unfaith  in  his  crippled 
apology.  But  her  next  remark  knocks  this  walking- 
stick  out  of  his  hand. 

"  I  am  going  to  ask  you  a  perfectly  unjustifiable 
question,  and  you  are,  of  course,  quite  at  liberty  to 

disregard  it."     Again  her  gaze  is  directed  between 
11 


158  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

her  horse's  ears  to  a  village  spire  at  the  lane  end. 
"  Did  I  last  night — did  I  do  or  say  anything  likely 
to  provoke  Mrs.  Clarence's  disapproval  ?  " 

Her  question  fills  him  with  astonished  dismay,  and 
he  sees  the  tell-tale  nature  of  his  tardiness  to  respond 
in  the  slow,  deep  stain  stealing  over  the  one  cheek 
he  can  see. 

"  I — I  do  not  think  I  quite  understand.  Why,  you 
hardly  spoke  ! " 

"  It  is  egotistical  of  me  to  suppose  that  she  noticed 
me  at  all  ;  but  I  had  an  instinct  that  she  took  a  dis- 
like to  me." 

There  is  another  betraying  pause.  He  knows  that 
to  her  transparent  and  almost  brutal  truthfulness — 
the  truthfulness  of  the  savage  and  the  dog — evasion 
will  be  vain,  and  will  only  degrade  him  in  her  eyes. 
Yet  how  tear  open,  widen  into  a  chasm,  the  little 
rift  he  already  grievingly  sees  existing  between  the 
two  soverigns  of  his  heart,  by  owning  that  his  love's 
eyes,  keen  with  watching  nature's  obscure  and  silent 
processes — keen  for  all  their  softness — have  divined 
aright  ? 

He  takes  shelter — a  poor  tumble-down,  unweather- 
tight  shelter — in  a  generality  : 

"  Don't  you  think  it  is  a  mistake  to  conclude  on 
insufficient  evidence  that  people  dislike  you  ?  " 

"  I  am  quite  aware  that  it  is  a  form  of  conceit  to 
imagine  that  strangers  occupy  themselves  at  all  about 
one  ;  and  if  you  tell  me  that  I  am  mistaken,  I  will 
believe  you." 

As  she  speaks,  she  removes  her  eyes  from  the  dis- 
tant steeple,  and,  contrary  to  what  has  been  her  habit 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  159 

throughout  the  ride,  places  them  upon  his.  The 
action  removes  his  last  chance  of  vamping  up  a 
successful  lie.  He  makes  the  best  of  a  bad  job. 

"  I  will  tell  you  the  exact  truth.  My  mother  has 
got  a  wrong  conception  of  you." 

"  How  ?  " 

The  brief  directness  of  this  question  throws  him 
once  again  on  his  beam-ends.  She  waits  a  second 
and  then  adds  quietly  : 

"  I  do  not  quite  see  how  she  can  have  any  concep- 
tion of  me  at  all  except  from  what  you  may  have 
told  her  of  me — if  you  have  happened  to  mention 
me." 

"  You  are  quite  right.  It  is  that  I  have  given  it 
to  her" — in  a  tone  of  acute  vexation. 

At  the  look  of  wonder,  a  little  tinged  with  gentle 
reproach,  that  comes  into  the  eyes  which  are  still 
meeting  his,  he  loses  his  hesitancy. 

"  When  I  came  back  from  Eastshire  I  was  naturally 
very  full  of  my  visit.  The  life  had  been  so  new  to 
me — its  unconventionally,  its  out-of-doorness,  and 
yet  its  intellectual  element." 

"  Yes,  it  is  a  nice  life." 

"  I  told  her  of  your  '  leading  '  in  the  harvest  field  ; 
of  your  sailing  the  boat,  and  breaking  in  the  filly  ; 
of  your  shrimping  ;  of  your  varied  activities,  in  fact." 

"  Yes  ?  " 

"You  know  what  things  words  are — what  clumsy 
contrivances  for  misleading.  I  need  not  tell  you  that 
that  was  not  the  impression  I  intended  to  convey  ; 
but  I  fear  she  gathered  the  idea  that  you  must  be 
rather — masculine  !  " 


160  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

Evidently  she  is  not  going  to  be  hasty  in  comment- 
ing on  his  blundering. 

"  I  am  not  masculine-looking,"  she  says  at  last,  in  that 
tone  of  firm  and  quiet  self-respect — in  naught  akin  to 
vanity — which  he  had  learned  last  year  from  Mrs.  Bevis 
to  be  the  outcome  of  her  difficult  and  thorny  life. 

He  knows  that  her  implication  is  that  one  look  at 
her  must  have  removed  the  impression  of  her  mannish- 
ness.  He  repeats  the  word  after  her,  as  if  only  so 
could  he  convey  the  strength  of  his  repudiation  of 
the  epithet.  Then,  afraid  that  the  emphasis  of  his 
tone  may  have  scared  her — and,  indeed,  it  has  had  the 
effect  of  making  her  at  once  wincingly  turn  away  her 
head,  he  hurries  on  : 

"  The  misconception  is,  of  course,  ludicrous.  One 
glance  would  suffice  to  prove  that." 

"  Then  why,  having  seen  me,  did  Mrs.  Clarence 
still  think  me  masculine  ?  " 

"  She  did  not  think  you  masculine," — lamely  eating 
his  words, — "  but " 

"  But  what  ?  " 

He  is  silent,  and  it  is  she  who,  still  quite  quietly, 
but  with  a  risen  color,  resumes  : 

"Did  I  say  anything  likely  to  confirm  that  impres- 
sion ?  I  do  not  quite  remember,  but  I  think  I  said 
very  little.  Other  people  were  talking  ;  there  was  no 
need  of  me." 

Still  silence. 

"I  cannot  recall  what  was  the  subject  of  conversa- 
tion " — drawing  her  brows  together.  "  Let  me  see. 
Oh,  yes  !  Mrs.  Dynevor  was  asking  me  about  Poppy 
de  Vere." 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  161 

She  has  given  him  his  lead,  and  loosened  the  string 
of  his  tongue.  It  is  not  ver}'  loose  even  now. 

"  I  know  you  will  not  misunderstand  me — I  am 
sure  you  will  comprehend  "  —  floundering — "  how 

little  intention The  fact  is,  that  my  mother — she 

herself  always  says  that  she  is  quite  a  hundred  years 
behind  the  time — may  have  been  a  little — a  little — 
surprised  at  your  having  any  information  to  give  on 
such  a  topic." 

It  seems  to  himself  an  odious  sentence  the  moment 
it  is  out  of  his  mouth.  He  dares  not  look  to  see  how 
she  takes  it. 

It  is  a  long  minute  before  she  answers,  in  a  tone 
that  he  has  not  yet  heard  : 

"  I  should  have  been  rather  stupid  if  I  had  not  had 
information  to  give  about  her  when  I  had  stayed  a 
week  in  the  house  with  her." 

"  A  week  ?  " 

"  Yes.  She  and  Lord  Camelot  came  for  a  race- 
week." 

"And  you  went  to  the  races  with  them  ?" 

"  No.  My  father  did  not  insist  on  my  going,  so  I 
stayed  at  home.  But  if  I  had  gone,  I  should  not 
have  been  at  all  afraid  of  Poppy  de  Yere  doing  me 
any  harm." 

There  is  a  ring  of  indescribable  pride  and  self- 
reliance  in  her  voice,  through  which  he  yet  feels  that 
a  strain  of  bitter  mortification  pierces. 

He  casts  a  remorseful  glance  at  her.  She  is  sitting 
dart  upright,  and  her  head  is  held  high,  but  she  looks 
a  very  small,  slight  thing  to  carry  such  a  bold  front 
against  a  destiny  so  unjustly  ugly. 


162  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

"  I  am  sure  that  no  one  would  admire  your  courage 
more  than  my  mother,"  he  says,  trying  futilely  to 
repair  the  mischief  he  has  done,  and  succeeding,  as 
he  is  stingingly  conscious,  only  in  being  flat  and 
lying.  "  But  her  ignorance  of  the  world  amounts  to 
a  positive  misfortune.  Her  mind  is  the  most  extraor- 
dinarily innocent  one  I  have  ever  come  into  contact 
with  ! " 

He  breaks  off,  with  a  suspicion  that  he  is  conveying 
the  impression  that  his  hearer's  mind  is  not  an  inno- 
cent one,  but,  as  she  does  not  help  him,  goes  on 
presently  : 

"She  has  lived  so  much  out  of  the  world,  has  kept 
such  an  astounding  ignorance  of  evil,  that  when  the 
existence  of  it  is  forced  upon  her  it  makes  her  really 
ill!  " 

"  She  is  a  very  fortunate  lady,"  replies  the  girl 
dryly,  yet  sadly  too.  "  No  wonder  that  she  did  not 
like  me  !  " 

And  Clarence  feels  that  his  effort  to  pave  the  way 
for  a  reciprocal  admiration  between  his  two  beloved 
women,  by  insuring  himself  against  the  danger  of  his 
love's  a  second  time  airing  her  knowledge  of  the 
demi-monde  to  his  parent,  has  resulted  only  in  deep- 
ening by  several  fathoms  the  rift  he  had  sought  to 
close. 


CHAPTER  XL 

THE  Bramshill's  are  apparently  in  no  hurry  to 
return  to  the  expensive  London  house  which  they 
have  taken  for  the  season.  Perhaps  their  experience 
of  it  between  Easter  and  Whitsun  has  shown  them 
the  not  altogether  new  fact  that  you  may  be  a  very 
significant  person  on  the  banks  of  the  Hooghly,  and 
a  very  insignificant  one  on  the  banks  of  the  Thames. 
Perhaps  Euphemia's  family  have  made  the  discovery 
that  there  are  too  many  seven  feet  of  young  female 
stature,  too  many  miraculous  roseleaf  skins,  in  Hyde 
Park  for  any  one  such  to  take  the  town  by  storm. 
Perhaps — the  most  charitable  supposition — Euphemia 
herself  prefers  the  cool  nightingales  and  lilacs,  the 
golf  and  croquet,  of  The  Beeches  to  the  hotter  and 
more  heart-burning  joys  of  London.  And  Honor 
stays  on  with  her. 

There  is  nothing  surprising  in  the  fact  of  a  sister- 
less  girl  desiring  to  prolong  a  companionship  which 
an  accidental  meeting  in  a  London  street  had 
renewed,  and  which  both  have  found  congenial.  Yet 
the  day  on  which  Lady  Bramshill  has  announced,  in 
the  tone  of  one  giving  a  piece  of  good  news,  "  Honor 
is  going  to  stay  on  with  us — no,  not  for  another 
week  ;  do  not  interrupt,  child  ! "  with  a  shaken  fore- 
finger as  she  attempts  to  slide  in  a  limitation  ;  "but 
indefinitely,"  is  one  that  is  marked  in  Mrs.  Clarence's 

163 


164  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

history  by  a  longer  kneeling  in  her  little  improvised 
oratory,  by  blacker-rimmed  eyes,  and  a  fainter  voice 
than  on  any  previous  occasion. 

The  smallness  of  his  mother's  voice,  on  which  he 
had  been  wont  to  rally  her,  has  got  of  late  upon 
Harry's  nerves.  He  does  not  give  himself  the 
opportunity  of  being  exposed  to  its  irritation  for 
long  together,  both  because  the  courts  have  resumed 
their  sittings,  and  because  what  leisure  his  attendance 
upon  them  leaves  him  is  spent  under  another  roof 
than  hers.  It  is  spent  chiefly  under  no  roof  at  all  : 
for  whoever  would  court  Honor  Lisle  must  do  it 
under  the  cope  of  heaven. 

And  that  he  is  courting  Honor  Lisle  is  a  fact  that 
he  no  longer  tries  to  conceal  from  himself.  Of  the 
two  mastering  influences  of  his  life,  the  elder  and 
weaker  has  gone  to  the  wall.  But  that  it  has  done 
so  is,  as  he  tells  himself,  its  own  fault.  It  is  his 
mother's  injustice  to  the  woman  he  loves  that  has 
given  the  necessary  impetus  to  his  decision..  As  the 
days  go  by  he  sees  how  little  nearer  grows  the 
rapprochement  he  had  hoped  for  between  them — the 
rapprochement  that  he  had  imagined  needed  only  a 
better  knowledge  to  bloom  into  fullest  appreciation, 
and  for  which  one  at  least  had  been  so  ready,  till  his 
own  clumsy  hand  warned  her  off. 

They  have  met  but  seldom  and  always  accidentally, 
as  Mrs.  Clarence  has  not  once  visited  The  Beeches 
since  Miss  Lisle's  arrival — an  ommission  which  in 
liis  heart  he  resents,  though  it  is,  in  fact,  but  the 
continuation  of  a  habit  of  abstinence  ;  nor  has  Honor 
once  again  accompanied  Lady  Bramshill  in  one  of 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  165 

her  not  infrequent  raids  upon  the  little  house  in  St. 
Gratian.  Once  or  twice  they  have  met  in  the  street. 

The  subject  forever  not  only  uppermost  in,  but 
solely  occupying,  the  hearts  and  minds  of  mother 
and  son  is  now  never  mentioned  between  them. 
Since  they  do  not  talk  of  that,  there  seems  to  be 
nothing  else  in  the  whole  range  of  creation  to  talk 
about.  Their  conversation,  once  so  free  and  full,  has 
dwindled  to  a  thread,  and  they  both — or  he  thinks 
so — avoid  possibilities  of  a  tete-d-tete. 

Once  or  twice  the  now  draggingness  of  her  step, 
the  languor  of  her  eyes,  and  her  flagging  appetite, 
drive  a  needle  of  pain  into  him  ;  but  he  steels  him- 
self against  her  with  the  reflection  of  how  little  real 
love  for  himself  her  mute  and  sullen  resistance  to  his 
attainment  of  what  she  knows  to  be  the  one  thing  he 
has  ever  passionately  wished  argues. 

Her  perpetual  church-going  frets  him.  He  does 
not  know  with  what  an  agony  of  ache  she  sees  the 
slackening  of  his  little  daily  kindnesses,  nor  that  it  is 
in  deadly  fight  with  the  tortures  of  jealous  hatred 
that  are  wringing  her  being  that  she  kneels  for  such 
endless  hours  in  the  church  of  whose  draughtiness  he 
so  carpingly  reminds  her. 

One  day  she  emerges  from  the  porch  partially 
victorious. 

"  Why  does  your  Miss  Lisle  never  come  here  ?  " 
she  asks,  when  next  she  meets  her  son — says  it  with 
an  abruptness  not  like  her,  and  arguing  a  fear  of  not 
being  able  to  put  the  question  if  she  risk  keeping  it 
long  by  her. 

The  light  and  warmth  which  seem  to  her  to  have 


166  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

been  so  long  absent  from  his  eyes,  when  turned  upon 
her,  spring  back  into  them. 

"  Would  you  like  her  to  corae  ?  " 

"I  do  not  want  to  force  her  inclinations" — with  a 
little  pallid  smile,  that  yet  tries  hard  to  be  cordial — 
"but,  if  she  is  willing " 

"  There  can  be  no  doubt  of  that !  "  puts  in  Abigail, 
who  has  just,  to  Harry's  annoyance,  entered  the  room, 
and  speaking  witli  officious  goodwill. 

"  Has  she  ever — I  mean  have  you  any  reason  for 
supposing — has  she  ever  expressed  a  wish  ?  " 

"No-o,  not  exactly;  but,  being  such  a  friend 
of  Harry's  of  course  she  must  want  you  to  like 
her  !  " 

The  mother  catches  her  breath,  and  the  son, 
inwardly  cursing  the  clumsiness  of  his  ally,  hastens 
to  take  up  his  own  parable  ;  but  his  touch  is  scarcely 
lighter  or  more  fortunate  than  his  cousin's. 

"What  day  would  you  like  to  see  her?  When 
shall  I  bring  her?" 

If  it  had  been  his  object  to  choose  the  most  unfor- 
tunate verb  that  he  could  light  on,  he  could  not 
have  been  more  successful.  Bring!  What  an 
implication  of  command  over  Miss  Lisle's  actions 
and  intentions  it  carries  in  its  very  sound  !  But  Mrs. 
Clarence's  heroism  still  lasts. 

"You  know  that  I  am  not  very  apt  to  be  out.  I 
should  wish  her  to  suit  her  own  convenience." 

The  words  are  stiff,  and  the  tone  is  faint  and  dry  ; 
but  lie  is  too  much  overjoyed  at  the  unlooked-for 
overture  to  pry  too  nicely  into  details. 

"  Her  convenience  shall  be  yours  !  "  he  cries  tri- 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDTS?  167 

umphantly  ;  and  again  her  ear  is  grated,  this  time  by 
the  shall. 

He  does  not,  or  will  not,  perceive  her  silence,  but 
once  again  takes  up  his  old  position  at  her  feet,  with 
his  head  laid  on  her  knees. 

"  How  can  I  thank  you  enough,  my  mother  !  "  he 
sighs,  almost  under  his  breath. 

The  attitude  is  the  old  one,  adopted  in  earliest 
childhood,  and  never  since  abandoned ;  but  the 
integral  difference  in  the  spirit,  coupled  with  the 
unveiled  confession  in  his  words,  are  too  much  for 
her.  She  spoils  all — spoils  it  even  while  her  hand  is 
mechanically  passing,  with  the  familiar  gesture  of 
years,  over  his  hair. 

"You  had  better  not  thank  me  till  the  interview  is 
over,"  she  says,  with  a  small  quivering  laugh. 
"  You  must  be  sure  to  be  present,  and  to  tell  me 
what  to  talk  about.  I  am  afraid  that  your  friend 
and  I  are  not  likely  to  have  many  topics  in  common. 
Do  you  know  that,  till  she  told  us  about  her,  I  had 
never  even  heard  of  Poppy  de  Vere  !  " 

This  speech  (Abigail  had  left  the  room  immediately 
after  her  own  unlucky  utterance,  either  because  she 
had  only.comein  to  fetch  something,  or  warned  away 
by  the  glare  in  her  usually  friendly  cousin's  eyes) 
this  speech  sends  him  off — it  is  one  of  his  free  after- 
noons— an  hour  earlier  than  he  had  intended  to  The 
Beeches. 

That  is,  perhaps,  the  reason  why  he  finds  Euphemia 
sole  occupant  of  the  little  habitual  camp  round  the 
hammock  in  which  she  is  lying. 

"  She  will  be  back  directly,"  says  the  young  lady, 


168  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

answering  his  look  of  balked  expectation  in  a  manner 
which  shows  how  little  deception  as  to  the  object  of 
his  search  there  is  in  her  mind.  "She  is  only  stroll- 
ing about  somewhere.  I  think  she  does  not  want 
me  to  see  how  upset  she  is." 

"Upset!     By  what?" 

"  By  having  to  leave  us  to-morrow." 

"  To-niorrow!" 

"Yes,  to-morrow.  That  unqualifiable  father  of 
hers  has  wired  for  her  to  come  home  at  once,  to 
entertain  a  party  of  blacklegs  and  Poppy  de  Veres 
for  some  steeplechases." 

He  is  quite  silent.  She  is  going  to-morrow  ;  and, 
despite  the  implication  in  the  verb  bring,  which  had 
carried  ice  to  his  mother's  heart,  he  has  as  yet  no  hold 
upon  her — no  assurance  that  this  sudden  slipping  out 
of  life  may  not  be  a  final  one. 

He  is  roused  by  a  laugh  from  Euphemia. 

"  Mother  is  signaling  madly  to  us  to  come  in  to 
tea.  I  wonder  what  mischief  she  thinks  we  are 
hatching." 

She  says  it  with  an  air  of  deep  amusement.  The 
misconception  into  which  Lady  Bramshill  had  origi- 
nally fallen,  and  which  has  been  carefully  fostered 
by  her  daughter  for  the  sake  of  the  amusement  that 
her  parent's  distressed  antics  have  afforded  her,  has 
also  been  nursed  by  Clarence.  He  knows  instinctively 
that,  had  his  hostess  realized  the  lie  of  the  land,  she 
would  not  have  been  above  rallying  him  upon  it — a 
possibility  at  which  his  spirit  shivers. 

Miss  Bramshill  pauses  a  minute  or  two  before 
obeying  her  mother's  summons — knowing  that  she  is 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  169 

watching  her  from  the  window — to  bend  her  tall 
head  languishingly  toward  the  young  man  ;  but, 
though  generally  a  willing  enough  confederate,  he  is 
now  too  preoccupied  to  take  any  part  in  her  game, 
and  they  cross  the  sward  in  silence. 

"You  have  heard  our  bad  news?"  says  Lady 
Bramshill,  greeting  the  young  man  with  something 
less  than  her  usual  expansiveness.  "  We  are  going 
to  lose  our  dear  little  Honor  !  "  In  a  cheerf  uller  key  : 
"  We  must  have  her  here  again  next  year." 

Next  year  !  What  an  infinite  distance  is  conveyed 
by  the  promissory  words  ! 

"  I  never  can  remember  whether  you  like  milk  or 
cream  in  your  tea,"  pursued  his  hostess,  adding 
placidly  :  "  Adolphus  will  be  inconsolable." 

Since  her  mother's  eyes  are  bent  upon  the  teacups, 
Euphemia  thinks  that  she  may  indulge  herself  in  a 
smile  of  meaning  amusement,  thrown  at  Clarence 
across  the  table  ;  but  Lady  Bramshill  unluckily  looks 
up  at  the  moment.  The  discovery  of  the  eyebeams 
being  flung  right  under  her  very  nose  agitates  her  so 
much  that  she  drops  the  sugar-tongs.  Clarence  stoops 
to  pick  them  up ;  but,  in  the  act  of  restoring  them, 
pauses,  arrested  by  the  sight  of  a  great  fir  bough 
entering  at  one  of  the  French  windows. 

It  is  a  moment  before  he  realizes  that  the  little  fig- 
ure carrying,  and  all  but  hidden  by  it,  is  that  of  the 
lady  of  his  thoughts. 

"  I  hope  you  will  not  mind,"  conies  her  small  voice 
through  its  somber  screen,  "  but  I  found  a  golden- 
crested  wren's  nest,  and  I  thought  Adolphus  might 
like  to  see  it." 


1*0  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

At  the  end  of  her  sentence  there  comes  a  slight 
change  and  catch  in  her  voice,  and  her  lover  knows 
that  she  has  seen  him.  They  gather  round  and  ad- 
mire the  houselet,  cunningly  hung  to  elude  the 
passer's  sight  beneath  the  branch  of  a  Douglas  fir. 
It  hangs  just  at  the  end  of  it,  with  pine  needles  and 
little  twigs  woven  in  to  hold  it  up  and  make  it 
secure.  What  a  sweet  little  elfin  home  under  the 
shower  of  enduring  green,  dark  above  and  silvery 
below  !  How  vivid  and  bright  the  fresh  shoots  of 
the  pine  ! 

Clarence  helps  its  captor  to  hang  it  in  trophy  upon 
the  rod  of  one  of  the  electric  lights  in  the  hall.  A 
golden-crested  wren  and  the  electric  light !  But  the 
wrenlings  had  wisely  flown  before  such  a  desecration 
of  their  woodland  birthplace  had  happened. 

Their  joint  occupation  has  a  little  isolated  the 
couple  from  the  other  two,  but  not  so  much  so  but 
that  Lady  Bramshill's  friendly  plaint  comes  to  their 
ears. 

"  It  is  a  sweetly  pretty  thing,  and  it  was  exceed- 
ingly clever  of  you  to  find  it  ;  but  I  rather  grudge 
your  hunt  for  it,  as  it  has  robbed  us  of  a  bit  of  your 
company  on  your  last  day." 

"  Your  last  day !  "  repeats  Clarence,  in  a  voice  war- 
ranted not  to  carry  into  the  next  room.  "  Why  is  it 
your  last  day  ?  " 

"  Have  you  not  heard  ?  My  father  has  sent  for 
me." 

"  To  another  rendezvous  with  Poppy  de  Vere  ?  " 

The  young  man  is  as  well  aware  as  you  or  I  that  it 
is  not  good  manners  to  fleer  at  a  person  to  his  nearest 


SYCLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  1T1 

of  kin,  but  his  boiling  indignation  forces  out  the 
gibe.  Her  matter-of-fact  answer  shows  neither  re- 
sentment nor  approbation  : 

"  I  do  not  know  ;  he  did  not  say." 

"  Why  do  you  go  ?  " 

"  Because  my  father  tells  me." 

She  repeats  the  answer  with  no  sign  of  impatience; 
then,  since  wrath  and  sorrow  keep  him  dumb,  adds  : 

"  Would  you  think  it  right  to  run  exactly  counter 
to  your  mother's  wishes  ?  " 

There  is,  or  he  fancies  it,  an  underlying  meaning  in 
her  question,  and  it  is  to  that  underlying  meaning 
that  his  answer  is  made. 

"  Yes,"  he  says  slowly  and  weightily  ;  "  there  are 
conditions — circumstances  under  which  I  should  un- 
doubtedly think  it  my  duty  to  run  counter  to  her 
wishes  ;  and  whether  it  were  my  duty  or  not,  1 
should  do  it." 

The  cool  slowness  of  his  beginning  is  exchanged  in 
the  latter  half  of  his  sentence  for  a  pregnant  hurry, 
and  it  seems  to  himself,  when  he  has  finished  it,  as  if 
he  had  made  a  declaration.  It  appeal's  to  be  the  only 
chance  of  making  one  that  will  be  given  him. 

Contrary  to  her  usual  custom,  Lady  Bramshill 
shows  no  inclination  to  leave  the  young  people.  She 
has  generally  seen  them  stroll  away  in  a  trio  or 
quartet  without  showing  any  wish  to  join  them.  To- 
day their  adjournment  to  the  encampment  round  the 
hammock  is  made  in  her  company,  and  when  they 
try  to  stroll  away  she  calls  them  back. 

It  has  always  been  their  custom  to  wander  off  in  a 
band,  and  not  separate  till  out  of  sight.  But  to-day 


1/2  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

all  Clarence's  efforts  to  abstract  Honor  from  the  rest 
of  the  party  are  vain.  For  some  reason  she  will  not 
connive  at  his  attempts  in  that  direction.  They  sit 
round,  all  either  out  of  spirits  or  out  of  temper. 
Presently  Euphemia  picks  up  a  book  lying  on  the 
grass. 

"  Who  has  left  his  literature  behind  him  ?  Poetry  ? 
It  must  be  Adolphus'  tutor;  he  is  always  imbibing 
poetry.  I  shall  read  aloud,  to  improve  all  our  minds," 
adding,  in  a  hastily  snatched  aside  to  Clarence,  apro- 
pos of  her  parent,  "  She  will  never  stand  it ;  it  will 
drive  her  away." 

She  begins  in  a  drawling  voice  : 

"  It  was  the  frog  in  the  well — 
Humbledum,  thuinbledum  ; 
And  the  merry  mouse  in  the  mill — 
Tweedle,  tweedle,  twino. 

"  The  frog  would  a-wooing  ride, 
Sword  and  buckler  by  his  side. 

"  "When  he  upon  his  high  horse  set, 
His  boots  they  shone  as  black  as  jet. 

"  When  he  came  to  the  merry  mill-pin — 
'  Lady  mouse,  live  you  within  ? ' 

"  Then  came  out  the  dusty  mouse  : 
'  I  am  lady  of  this  house. 

"  '  Hast  thou  any  mind  of  me  ? ' 
'  I  have  e'en  great  mind  of  thee. ' " 

There  is  a  sound  of  shuffling  on  one  of  the  garden 
chairs. 

"  What  fearful  rubbish  !  "  says  Lady  Bramshill,  a 
streak  of  pettishness  in  her  good-hurnored  voice. 


8CYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ?  173 

"  Come   and  tell  me  when  you  have  finished,"  and 
she  walks  away  homeward. 

"  We  may  perhaps  go  on  till  dinner  time,"  replies 
Euphemia  demurely  ;  but  the  instant  that  her  mother 
is  out  of  sight  she  tosses  away  the  book,  and  spring- 
ing out  of  the  hammock,  slips  away  into  the  shrub- 
beries, followed  by  the  other  two.  She  keeps  ahead 
of  them,  and  at  the  path's  first  elbow  disappears. 

The  maneuver  is  so  patent  that  for  a  moment  it 
makes  both  those  who  benefit  by  it  feel  awkward. 
But  in  Clarence's  case  it  is  only  for  a  moment.  This 
is  one  of  his  life's  big  moments,  and  he  must  wring 
his  destin}7-  out  of  it.  But  he  has  never  in  his  life 
before  asked  a  woman  to  marry  him,  and  he  has  not 
the  remotest  idea  how  to  begin. 

"  Was  it  anywhere  near  here  that  you  found  your 
wren's  nest  ?  " 

"  No,  oh,  no  !  that  was  in  a  fir  tree,  and  these  are 
all  hardwood  ones.  What  a  pity" — looking  up — 
"  that  there  is  such  a  plague  of  caterpillars  on  the  oaks 
this  year  !  " 

"  Yes,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  But  it  has  one  advantage.  It  brings  a  great 
many  more  nightingales." 

"  Do  they  eat  caterpillars  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

It  was  hardly  worth  while  to  have  fled  for  privacy 
into  the  heart  of  a  wood  in  order  to  exchange  remarks 
of  the  above  kind.  This  thought  puts  a  kind  of  rage 
into  his  next  sentence. 

"  Are  we  to  spend  our  last  walk  in  talking  of  cater- 
pillars ?  " 

12 


174  SCYLLA  OR  CHAKYBDIS  ? 

There  is  no  rage  in  her  answer  : 

"  I  think  one  has  dropped  on  my  neck  at  the  back. 
Would  you  mind  taking  it  off  ?  " 

She  stoops  her  large-hatted  little  head  as  she  speaks, 
and  presents  to  him  her  nape,  on  which,  sure  enough, 
a  many  legged  wanderer  is  expatiating.  It  is  with 
very  mixed  feelings  that  the  lover  picks  off  the  little 
green  wriggler.  He  feels  the  confidingness  of  the 
request  in  one  whom  her  unhappy  experience  of  men 
has  made  so  stand-off,  and  not  all  his  reverence  can 
quell  a  strong  thrill  at  this  first,  perhaps  last,  contact 
with  the  warm  satin  of  her  skin  ;  but  yet,  that  at 
such  a  moment  she  should  be  able  to  talk  of  a  cater- 
pillar ! 

"  I  thought  you  would  have  cared, — a  little  !  " 

Her  answer  is  almost  inaudible  : 

"  I  never  care  a  little  about  anything." 

He  is  still  pondering  the  enigma  of  this  sentence, 
when  a  turn  in  the  path  brings  them  into  close  view 
of  its  end,  and  a  moment  later  they  are  looking  down 
at  the  sunk  fence  that  bars  their  further  progress.  It 
is  overhung  by  a  giant  elm,  iron-clamped,  to  hinder 
the  two  halves,  like  separate  trees,  of  its  prodigious 
bulk  from  leaning  further  and  further  apart,  surpris- 
ing, by  its  majesty,  those  who  come  suddenly  into 
sight  of  it.  Under  its  boughs  they  must  needs  halt. 
This  pause  gives  him  at  least  the  advantage  of  a  little 
command  of  her  face,  standing  opposite,  instead  of 
beside  her. 

"You  never  care  a  little  about  anything?"  he 
repeats.  "  Does  that  mean  that  you  ever  care  a  great 
deal?" 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  H5 

"  I  have  never  bad  anything  much  to  care  about," 
she  answers  ;  and  though  she  does  not  intend  it,  the 
words  ring  forlornly. 

"  But  if  you  had  anything  to  care  about,  would  you 
care  about  it  mucli  /  " 

The  question  sounds  in  his  own  ears  ridiculously 
like,  "  If  you  had  a  brother,  would  he  like  cheese  ?  " 
but  her  sense  of  the  absurd  is  not  very  quick,  and  she 
only  answers,  almost  under  her  breath  : 

"  Perhaps." 

Interpreting  her  one  word  in  the  sense  he  would 
have  it,  he  can  no  longer  govern  himself,  but  stretches 
out  his  arms  to  enfold  her  "  small  but  ravishing  sub- 
stance." But  she  gives  a  start  and  eludes  him,  while 
her  eyes,  downcast  till  now,  throw  a  deeply  reproach- 
ful look  at  him. 

In  the  almost  mechanical  gesture  of  self-defense  he 
reads  afresh  the  melancholy  story  of  her  past  experi- 
ence of  men.  It  is  an  archaic  solecism  nowadays  to 
ask  kneeling  for  the  hand  of  any  lady  ;  but  he  can 
think  of  no  better  way  to  show  the  extremity  of  his 
reverence  for  her  than  by  kneeling  to  her  on  the 
mossed  grass.  In  this  attitude,  and  taking  her  hand, 
he  says  with  the  deepest  respect  : 

"  Will  you  be  my  dear  and  honored  wife?" 

It  is  a  mode  of  offering  himself  that  savors  more 
of  the  eighteenth  than  the  nineteenth  century, 
but  she  does  not  know  much  about  the  eighteenth 

o 

century,  and  her  lip  quivers.  Looking  up  into  the 
stirred  depths  of  her  velvet  eyes,  and  realizing  more 
than  ever  the  small  whiteness  of  her  pensive  yet 
plucky  little  face,  and  of  what  a  gallant  heart  it  is  the 


176  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

index,  he  must  needs  change  his  key.  A  line  of  the 
quaint  Elizabethan  lyric  which  had  put  Lady  Brams- 
hill  to  flight  comes  to  his  aid.  He  has  laid  his  other 
hand  over  her  already  pinioned  one,  and  the  passion 
which  a  divine  pit\r  and  longing  to  protect  her  had 
for  the  moment  stirred  and  awed  comes  swelling  back 
into  his  voice  in  a  sort  of  laugh  : 

"  '  Hast  thou  any  mind  of  me  ? ' ' 

An  agitated  smile  breaks  doubtful  at  first,  then 
like  morning's  red  promise,  over  her  face,  and  in  a 
tiny  voice  comes  the  answering  verse  : 

"  '  I  have  even  great  mind  of  thee  !'  You  see,  I  do 
know  one  line  of  poetry  !  "  with  a  little  sob  ;  and  so, 
he  still  kneeling  to  receive  her,  she  stoops  forward 
with  "  rosy  pudency  "  into  his  blessed  arms. 

But  it  is  not  long  before  she  withdraws  herself 
from  his  embrace,  the  inveterate  habit  of  reserve 
reasserting  itself.  She  only  leaves  him  her  hand  as  a 
pledge  of  not  slipping  from  him  altogether,  and  when 
she  speaks  her  voice  is  troubled  : 

"  Do  you  realize  that  I  have  been  very  badly 
brought  up  ?" 

"  Fully." 

"Are  you  quite  sure  that  you  understand  how 
badly  ?  Had  I  not  better  tell  you  now  ?  " 

"  Not  now  !     Not  now  !  " 

"I  think  it  would  be  more  honest  to  tell  you  ! " 

"  Then  be  dishonest." 

"  Will  it — will  it — hurt  her  very  much  ?" 

"  Hurt  whom  ?  " 

For  the  moment,  lapt  in  Elysium,  he  has  actually 
forgotten. 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  177 

"  Your  mother." 

The  wings  with  which  he  has  been  soaring  to 
heaven  drop  off.  He  cannot  tell  her  the  truth,  and 
he  cannot  lie  to  her  ;  but  she  reads  the  answer  in  his 
face.  She  heaves  a  sigh. 

"  Must  one  always  buy  one's  happiness  with  some- 
one else's  pain?" 

He  can  think  of  no  better  answer  than  to  unclasp 
the  one  hand  she  has  left  him  and  lift  its  palm — a  little 
hardened  by  much  wielding  of  golf  clubs — to  his  lips. 
She  allows  the  action,  but  with  a  slight  flush,  then 
speaks  again  : 

"And  she  has  not  been  used  to  being  unhappy,  has 
she  ?  " 

"  No,  not  for  many  years.     Thank  God,  no  !  " 

A  little  pause. 

"  It  must  be  so  much  worse  to  be  unhappy  when 
you  are  not  used  to  it,"  she  says  softly. 

"  Does  that  mean  that  you  are  used  to  it  ?  " 

"  I  have  always  been  rather  unhappy,"  she  answers 
mritter-of-factly. 

A  wave  of  immense  tenderness  toward  both  his 
beloveds  pours  from  his  heart  over  his  lips. 

"  You  shall  never,  either  of  you,  have  a  moment's 
unhappiness  again  !  "  he  cries  rationally. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THAT  there  are  difficulties  in  the  way  of  keeping 
that  half  of  his  promise  which  refers  to  his  mother, 
Clarence  feels  pretty  clearly  as  he  nears  his  home 
late  that  night — late,  for  the  Bramshills,  like  most 
Indians,  are  a  sitting-up  family,  and  he  has  to  be 
almost  turned  out  even  then.  Yet,  after  they  leave 
the  wood,  he  enjoys  very  little  of  his  love's  com- 
pany, thanks  less  to  his  fear  of  Lady  Bramshill's 
raillery  than  to  Honor's  earnest  desire  that  the  Brams- 
hill  family  should  not  learn  the  state  of  the  case 
until  she  has  obtained  her  father's  consent. 

To  disguise  his  balked  longings,  he  throws  himself 
into  the  semblance  of  a  furious  devotion  to  Eu- 
phemia,  which,  with  inward  laughter,  she  goes  quite 
halfway  to  meet. 

He  has  made  up  his  mind  to  let  his  mother  have  the 
night's  reprieve,  when  the  sight  of  a  light  under 
her  bedroom  door  as  he  passes  it  upsets  his  resolu- 
tion. He  knocks,  and  her  voice,  perfectly  wakeful, 
bids  him  come  in.  A  slight  noise  of  rustling  tells 
him  as  he  does  so  that  she  has  risen  from  her  knees. 
"  Is  she  always  praying  ?"  is  his  thought,  made  up 
in  equal  parts  of  the  old  awed  tenderness  at  her 
saintliness,  and  the  new  irritated  wonder  for  what 
boon  she  can  be  so  ceaselessly  besieging  her  God. 

She  knows  that  it  annoys  him  to  find  her  kneeling, 

178 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  1^9 

and  makes  a  little  feint,  which  gives  him  a  prick  of 
conscience,  of  having  been  sitting  all  along  in  her 
armchair.  But  a  tell-tale  manual  of  devotion  left 
open  on  the  back  of  her  prie-dieu  betrays  her. 

His  eye  rests,  disturbed,  yet  tender,  upon  the 
heading  of  one  of  the  prayers:  "  For  a  Departed 
Friend." 

"You  pray  for — for  my  father  still  ?  " 

If  she  answers  at  all,  it  is  by  a  slight  assenting 
motion  of  the  head  ;  but  her  words  have  no  relation 
to  the  subject. 

"  How  quietly  you  came  in !  I  never  heard  the 
hall  door.  "Were  you  afraid  of  waking  your  old 
mother?  I  need  not  ask" — taking  his  face  with 
jealous  fondness  into  her  two  hands  as  he  stoops  to 
kiss  her — "  whether  you  have  enjoyed  yourself." 

"  Do  I  radiate  light  ?  "  he  asks  excitedly.  "  I  am 
sure  I  ought !  But  I  did  not  know  " — with  a  laugh — 
"  that  it  was  written  all  over  me  outside  !  " 

He  hopes  she  will  ask  what  "  it "  is ;  but  no. 
That  she  guesses  is  evident  by  the  slow  subsiding 
of  her  framing  hands  from  his  face  down  into  her 
lap.  But  it  is  not  a  little  thing  that  can  rebut  him 
to-night.  Perhaps  he  may  take  her  by  storm. 

He  falls  on  his  knees  beside  her,  and  enwraps  her 
in  his  arms. 

"My  mother!  All  my  life  you  have  been  very 
glad  when  I  have  been  even  a  little  glad;  now  that 
I  am  very  glad,  will  not  you  be  even  a  little  glad  ?  " 

Her  self-control  gives  way. 

"  Glad!  GLAD!  "  she  repeats,  pressing  her  face 
with  a  moan  against  his  shoulder.  Then,  feeling  his 


180  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

arms  slackening,  she  makes  a  great  effort  to  pull  her- 
self together.  "  I  must  know  first  what  I  have  to 
be  glad  about,  must  not  I?" 

The  sound  of  that  wail  in  her  voice  has  chilled 
away  the  hot  words  of  boiling  happiness  from  his 
lips. 

"  Did  you  give  my  message  to  Miss  Lisle  ?  Is  she 
coming  to  see  me  ?  I  dare  say  we  shall  find  plenty 
to  talk  about  after  all.  You  must  explain  to  her 
that  I  am  that  most  foolish  of  anomalies,  a  shy  old 
woman !  " 

He  recognizes  the  heroic  effort  that  this  amende 
has  cost  her,  but  his  gratitude  is  lost  in  pain  at  the 
perceptible  intensity  of  her  inward  revolt. 

He  frees  her  from  that  hold  which  he  had  hoped 
might  have  caressed  her  into  at  least  acquiescence, 
and  sits  down  on  a  chair  at  a  politer  and  less  tender 
distance. 

"  I  am  afraid  the  visit  cannot  be  paid  this  time. 
Miss  Lisle  has  been  sent  for  home  by  her  father,  and 
has  to  leave  The  Beeches  early  to-morrow  morning." 
Though  he  is  not  looking  at  her,  intuition  and  the 
sound  of  a  slight  start  telling  him  of  the  ilash  of 
joy  and  hope  that  this  piece  of  news  has  sent  racing 
through  her  being,  he  hurries  on:  "But,  as  you  often 
say,  (Ce  qui  est  differe,  n'est  point  perdu"1 ;  and 
before  long  I — I — hope  to  bring  her  to  }TOU  for 
good!" 

In  his  excitement  he  has  drawn  his  chair  nearer  to 
hei*,  leaning  forward  the  while,  so  as  to  diminish  still 
further  the  distance  between  them,  and  the  two  faces, 
so  unlike,  and  yet  on  both  which  extreme  emotion 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARTBDIS?  181 

is  drawing  out  the  latent  likeness,  peer  into  each 
other. 

He  is  not  sure,  so  low  is  it  spoken,  but  he  thinks 
that  she  repeats  liis  two  last  words,  "for  good"  with 
an  accent  of  exquisite  irony. 

"  She  has  promised  to  marry  me." 

Not  even  a  repetition  of  his  words  this  time.  Once 
again  his  arms  are  round  her.  He  cannot  believe 
that  the  talisman  of  his  touch — which,  when  he  was 
little,  would  have  wiled  the  heart  out  of  her  body, 
and  has  seemed  only  to  gain  in  power  as  the  reserve 
of  manhood  has  made  his  endearments  rarer — can 
have  utterly  lost  its  effect. 

"  Mother,  you  do  not  want  me  to  go  through  life 
wifeless,  do  you  ? — you,  that  have  yourself  known  the 
blessedness  of  a  happy  marriage  !" 

He  feels  her  writhe  in  his  embrace.  Is  it  for  this 
that  she  has  practiced  upon  him  the  pious  fraud  of 
concealing  the  ugly  wretchedness  of  her  own  experi- 
ence of  the  nuptial  tie  ? 

But  he  mistakes  the  cause  of  her  involuntary  ges- 
ture, and,  once  again  loosing  her,  rises  and  stands  be- 
side her. 

"  You  are  not  treating  me  well,"  he  says,  in  a  voice 
of  pi-ofound,  though  partially  controlled,  indignation. 
"  With  what  difference  could  you  have  received  my 
news  if  I  had  brought  you  as  daughter  an  outcast — 
a — a — Poppy  de  Vere?" 

"You  misunderstand  me,"  she  says  faintly,  stretch- 
ing out  her  hand  to  draw  him  back.  "You  must  not 
run  away  with  an  idea." 

"Do   you   think   that  I  want  to?'*  he  asks,  half 


182  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

mollified.  "But  I  felt  you  distinctly  shudder  at  the 
mention  of  my  marriage  with  her.  What  could  you 
have  done  more  had  it " 

"  You  are  mistaken,"  she  interrupts.  "  I  was 
not  thinking  of  the  present,  but  of — of — thejtKMi/  " 

He  is  back  in  a  moment  at  her  knees. 

"The past !  Oh,  poor  mother  !  But  I  hoped  that 
that  old  wound  had  long  ago  healed." 

"So  it  has — so  it  has.  You" — embracing  him 
feverishly  with  her  slender  arms — "have  healed  all 
my  wounds  long,  long  ago.  But  you  know  that  old 
wounds  have  a  trick  of  breaking  out  afresh  after 
many  years." 

"  Yes,  yes,  of  course  " — remorsefully. 

"You  must  not  be  in  a  hurry  with  me" — tremu- 
lously. "You  know  that  I  cannot  go  quite  as  fast  as 
you.  I  am  old  and  slow." 

"  Her  first  thought  was  for  you — her  first  question 
whether  you  would  be  hurt." 

"Was  it?" 

"  She  said " 

The  mother  breaks  in,  as  if  her  ears  could  not  yet 
endure  the  sound  of  the  enamored  quotation  : 

""Yes,  yes  ;  I  am  sure  she  said  everything  that  was 
nice." 

"  She  knows  that  you  dislike  her." 

"  Does  she  ?  " 

"  And  is  anxious — touchingly  anxious — to  propitiate 
you." 

"  Is  she  ?  " 

"She  consulted  me  as  to  how  best  to  do  it.'* 

"  Did  she  ?    And  what  did  3rou  advise  ?  " 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ?  183 

"  I  gave  her  the  same  advice  as  you  have  just 
given  me — not  to  hurry  you.  I  told  her  that  you  ai'e 
slow  to  like,  but  that  when  you  do  love  it  is  for  time 
and  eternity.  Was  I  right  ?" 

There  is  the  old  reverent  enthusiasm  back  in  his 
voice,  but  its  return  gives  her  no  joy. 

"  I  do  not  quite  know,"  she  answers,  turning  about 
her  head  miserably.  "  One  does  not  quite  know 
about  one's  self,  does  one?" 

"As  I  have  always  told  you,  you  are  so  strangely 
alike  in  essentials," — she  gives  a  slight  start  of  dis- 
taste, but  it  is  so  slight  that  she  trusts  he  is  not  aware 
of  it, — "under  your  surface  unlikenesses,  that  I  do  not 
think  it  is  humanly  possible  that  you  can  fail  to  grow 
dear  to  one  another." 

"Isn't  it?" 

"In  six  months" — warming  with  his  theme — "you 
will  be  as  fond  of  her  as  she  is  already  prepared  to 
be  of  you." 

"I  dare  say  " — in  an  almost  extinct  voice. 

"  You  will  have  two  people  to  love  you  instead  of 
one." 

This  foolish  little  multiplication  sum  has  no  sooner 
passed  his  lips  than  he  feels  its  futility.  She  bursts 
into  uncontrollable  tears,  which  drop  scalding  upon 
his  neck. 

"  I  have  always  been  quite,  quite  satisfied  with  my 
one." 

The  poor  soul  had  meant  to  have  behaved  so  well, 
and  she  has  not  behaved  very  well  after  all ! 

Her  recognition  of  his  news  is  not  such  as  to  incline 
him  to  seek  with  her  consolation  for  his  love's  depar- 


184  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

ture  when  the  early  train  has  steamed  away  with  her 
on  the  following  morning,  and  without  much  pressing 
he  goes  back  with  the  Bramshills,  who  have  mustered 
in  force  to  see  her  off,  and  so  innocently  marred  the 
privacy  of  his  adieu,  to  breakfast  at  The  Beeches. 

Though  forbidden  to  tell  them  of  his  bliss,  yet  the 
long  loudness  of  their  laments  over  their  departed 
guest  makes  him  feel  as  perfectly  in  tune  with  them 
as  he  is  out  of  tnne  with  his  home  surroundings,  and  in 

O     ' 

Euphemia's  eye,  at  least,  he  reads  perfect  knowledge. 

"I  am  lost  without  her,"  she  says,  in  a  tone  of  such 
affectionate  exaggeration  as  sends  a  grateful  beam 
from  his  eye  to  hers  ;  and  Lady  Bramshill  adds  with 
a  sigh  : 

"  Yes,  she  is  a  dear  little  oddity,  and  has  managed 
to  creep  into  all  our  hearts." 

It  gives  the  young  man  rather  a  shock  to  hear  his 
divinity  alluded  to  as  a  "dear  little  oddity,"  and 
Euphemia  evidently  reads  his  thought,  for  she  sa}rs, 
with  a  smile  in  the  tail  of  her  fine  eye  : 

"  You  must  come  to  dinner  to-night  to  cheer  us  up. 
We  shall  be  as  flat  as  pancakes  without  our  '  oddity  ' 
if  you  do  not." 

Her  look  at  him  is  so  full  of  comprehension  and 
goodwill  that  it  is  a  very  faint  demurrer  which  he 
puts  in  : 

"  I  should  like  it,  of  all  things,  more  than  I  can  say. 
The  only  objection  is,  that  I  do  not  quite  like  to  leave 
my  mother  two  nights  running." 

Though  the  objection  is  evidently  only  offered  to 
be  overruled,  Lady  Bramshill  takes  it  up  with  more 
haste  than  hospitality. 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  185 

"  You  are  quite  right.  We  must  not  be  selfish,  and 
lead  j^ou  into  neglecting  your  mother  ;  and  as  you 
very  properly  say,  she  would  be  sadly  lonely  without 
you." 

"It  is  a  condition  of  mind  which  we  cannot  under- 
stand, mother,"  rejoins  Euphemia  sub-impertinently  ; 
"but  Mrs.  Clarence  likes  to  be  alone.  She  told  me 
so  herself,  in  the  hope,  I  think," — with  a  teasing 
smile, — "  that  I  should  pass  on  the  information  to  you. 
No,  no," — to  the  young  man, — "  you  may  put  your 
filial  piety  into  your  pocket,  and  come." 

His  own  inclination  is  so  much  on  her  side  that 
he  does  not  notice  that  the  daughter's  invitation  is 
unindorsed  by  the  lady  of  the  house,  and  he 
accepts. 

A  week  passes,  of  which  most  of  the  hours  that  he 
can  spare  from  his  work  are  spent  at  that  spot  where, 
though  he  can  no  longer  hope  to  find  his  love  in 
bodily  presence,  he  may  yet,  with  the  fine  eye  and 
ear  of  fancy,  trace  her  small  footsteps  and  catch  the 
echo  of  her  strange  little  voice.  Sometimes  Euphemia 
stalks  in  silent  sympathy  by  his  side  ;  sometimes  he 
steals  off  alone  to  the  forked  elm  at  the  thicket  end, 
and  lives  over  again,  in  hot,  tranced  memory,  his  life's 
prime  half-hour. 

A  week  has  passed,  and  she  has  not  yet  taken  the 
embargo  off  his  tongue.  He  has  received  from  her, 
in  answer  to  his  outpourings,  three  stiff  little  notes, 
chiefly  occupied  by  apologies  for  her  penmanship  and 
spelling,  and  by  explanations  that  she  has  not  yet 
found  a  fitting  moment  for  calling  her  father's  atten- 
tion— evidently  always  of  the  slackest — to  her  affairs. 


186  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

All  three  billets  are  stiff;  but  the  last  is  illumined 
by  a  rather  indistinct  postscript  :  "  Do  not  make  me 
get  too  fond  of  you."  He  kisses  the  trembling  line 
illegible. 

As  ill-luck  will  have  it,  all  three  notes  have  been 
given  him  in  the  presence  of  his  mother,  and  he  has 
sheepishly  conveyed  them  unread  to  his  pocket.  She 
has  looked  on,  or  rather  carefully  away,  in  silence  in 
the  case  of  the  two  first,  but  at  the  third  she  speaks 
in  an  unsure  voice  : 

"  Will  not  you  read  your  letter  ?  " 

One  look  at  her  tells  him  what  the  request  has  cost 
her  to  make. 

"Oh,  thanks  !     I  will,  then,  if  you  will  let  me." 

He  would  like  to  take  it  at  least  to  the  window, 
where  he  might  gloat  and  beam  over  it  unnoticed  ; 
but  she  looks  so  ostentatiously  in  another  direction 
that  he  does  not  like  to  wound  her  by  changing  his 
position.  Yet  as  he  reads,  he  knows  that  she  has  not 
been  able  to  resist  one  snatched  glance  at  him,  and 
that  it  has  reached  him  just  as  the  flash  of  shy  passion 
in  the  postscript  had  sent  an  unveilable  glow  over  his 
features.  He  makes  for  the  door. 

"  I  may  be  detained,"  he  says,  stopping  a  second 
on  his  way  out ;  "  do  not  wait  dinner  for  me." 

Her  movements  are  usuall}'  so  slow  in  their  noise- 
less grace  that  he  is  not  prepared  to  find  her  at  the 
door  before  him  ;  but  there  she  stands,  with  her 
back  to  it,  one  white  hand  pressed  against  the  panel 
behind  her. 

"  You  shall  not  go  !  "  she  says,  in  a  key  of  quiver- 
ing command.  "  I  will  not  let  you  !  You  shall  not 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  187 

go  to  pour  out  your  heart  to  those — those  upstart 
strangers,  while  you  keep  it  shut  to  me  !  " 

There  is  such  an  anguish  of  jealousy  and  hurt-to- 
death  love  in  her  voice  that  once  again,  as  so  often 
of  late,  alternating  with  resentment,  there  rushes  a 
billow  of  reverent  pity  over  his  heart. 

"You  are  mistaken,"  he  answers.  "I  have  told 
them  nothing.  You  are  my  only  confidante,  as  you 
have  been  all  my  life  ;  and,  besides,  she  has  forbidden 
me  to  tell  anyone  until  she  has  obtained  her  father's 
consent." 

"  Is  there  any  likelihood  of  his  refusing  it  ?  " 

If  he  recognizes  an  involuntary  hope  in  the  breath- 
lessness  of  her  voice,  he  hastens  to  q-uench  it. 

"  Not  the  slightest.  He  will  be  thankful  to  be 
rid  of  her." 

He  dislikes  the  phrase  as  soon  as  uttered,  since 
there  is  an  apparent  belittling  of  his  love's  value  in  it. 

"  I  should  be  only  too  glad  if  you  would  tell  me  a 
little  about  her.  You — you  used  to  like  to  have  me 
for  a  listener." 

The  humble  appeal  of  her  tone,  showing  the  full- 
ness of  her  surrender,  touches  him  to  the  quick. 

"  The  wide  world  could  not  give  me  anything  I 
should  like  better." 

He  passes  his  arm  around  her  as  he  speaks,  and 
draws  her  head  to  his  shoulder.  It  lies  there  peace- 
ably for  only  a  moment.  She  lifts  it  restlessly. 

"  Tell  me  now,  here,  now  !    Do  not  go  away  !  " 

"  I  am  afraid  that  I  must,"  he  answers  soothingly, 
and  still  caressing  her.  "  Lady  Bramshill  has  some- 
thing that  she  wishes  to  say  to  me, — I  cannot  conceive 


188  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

what, — and  has  appointed  this  hour  ;  but  I  will  not 
stay  a  moment  longer  than.  I  can  help,  and  then — 
then " 

It  is  with  an  inexpressibly  light  heart  that  the 
young  man  canters  across  the  pastures  of  the  now 
so  familiar  short-cut  to  The  Beeches.  Fortune  is 
showering  her  goods  on  him  with  both  hands.  If 
she  will  only  add  to  her  liberality  that  of  making 
Lady  Bramshill  short-winded  !  A  transient  wonder 
crosses  his  mind — it  has  done  so  several  times  before 
— as  to  what  communication  she  can  have  to  make  to 
him  that  needs  the  pomp  of  an  appointment.  But 
his  heart  is  too  full  of  joy  to  have  much  leisure  to 
pause  over  it. 

He  leaves  his  horse  at  the  stables,  and,  reaching 
the  house,  is  shown  at  once  upstairs  into  Lady  Brams- 
hill's  private  room,  into  which  he  has  never  before 
penetrated.  She  is  apparently  waiting  for  him,  sit- 
ting on  a  sofa,  and  with  no  visible  occupation. 
There  is  a  constraint,  which  surprises  him,  in  her 
manner  of  greeting  and  complimenting  him  on  his 
punctuality. 

"  Am  I  so  punctual  ?  I  was  afraid  that  I  was  a 
little  late." 

"  No,  no  !     Quite  punctual." 

"I  think  I  understood  that  you  wished  to 
speak " 

She  cuts  off  the  tail  of  his  sentence. 

"  Ho\v  is  your  mother  ?  " 

"She  is  pretty  well,  thanks.  She  feels  the  heat  a 
good  deal — at  least,  she  looks  pale." 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ?  189 

"  Looks  pale,  does  she  ?  Has  she  been  worried 
about  anything  lately  ?  Has  she  had  anything  to 
worry  her  ?  " 

He  hesitates. 

"She  has  had  nothing  that  she  need  worry  about." 

While  he  is  speaking  his  companion  has  got  up  to 
draw  aside  and  look  behind  a  hanging  of  Indian 
grass-cloth  which  sci'eens  a  recess  of  the  room. 

"  These  portieres  are  such  treacherous  things,  one 
has  no  security  that  someone  is  not  listening  to  us." 

The  evident  agitation  of  her  manner  is  beginning 
to  make  him  feel  uncomfortable,  though  he  would  be 
puzzled  to  say  why. 

"  Would  it  matter  " — smiling — "  if  they  were 
seven  deep  at  the  keyhole,  like  the  servants  at  Sir 
Pitt  Crawley's  proposal  ?  " 

She  comes  back. 

"  There  is  no  one  there,  but  perhaps  it  would  be 
safer  if  we  did  not  speak  very  loud." 

His  vague  disquietude  grows  more  acute. 

"  What  can  you  have  to  say  to  me  that  requires 
such  secrecy  ?  "  he  asks,  in  a  voice  of  suppressed  ridi- 
cule, and  only  half-suppressed  irritation. 

Again  she  rises  and  walks  to  a  window,  which  she 
shuts. 

"  Voices  carry  so  far  through  an  open  window." 

"  I  must  beg  you  " — civilly,  yet  imperatively,  too — 
"  not  to  delay  any  longer  telling  me  what  it  is  that 
needs  so  much  mystery  as  a  preamble." 

"  I  will,  I  will  !  "  her  flurry  palpably  increasing. 
"  Of  course,  I  have  no  right  to  keep  you  in  suspense  ; 
but  it  is  such  a  very  difficult  thing  to  say — to  put  into 
13 


190  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

words — liking  you  as  I  do,  and  your  mother  before 
you.  You  believe  how  much  we  have  all  liked 
you  ?  " 

"  Save  liked  !  "  repeats  he,  struck  by  her  employ- 
ment of  the  past  tense.  "  Are  you  going  to  tell  me 
that  I  have  done  anything  to  forfeit  your  liking?  " 

"No,  oh,  no!  At  least,  not  intentionally,  I  am 
sure." 

"  Unintentionally,  then  ?  " 

"  I  know  that  your  mother's  son  must  be,  and  is,  the 
soul  of  honor." 

"  Honor  !  "  repeats  he,  growing  deeply  red.  "  Do 
you  mean  to  imply  that  there  is  any  question  of  my 
having  behaved  dishonorably  ?  " 

"  No,  no  !  You  must  not  run  away  with  an  idea. 
I  am  sure  that  nothing  was  further  from  your 
thoughts  ;  but  you  have  just  been  drifting." 

A  light — a  disagreeable  one — breaks  upon  him. 
This  officious  fat  woman  is  going  to  take  him  to  task 
about  his  conduct  toward  his  darling.  Well,  per- 
haps, having  no  more  knowledge  than  she  has  upon 
the  subject,  she  is  only  doing  her  duty.  She  may, 
with  some  show  of  reason,  suppose  that  he  is  trifling 
with  her  affections.  He  smiles  involuntarily  at  the 
grotesqueness  of  this  idea.  It  is  an  innocent  smile 
enough,  but  its  effect  is  unfortunate. 

"  It  may  be  a  laughing  matter  to  you,"  says  his  com- 
panion, and  he  sees  that  indignation  has  superseded 
the  distress  hitherto  reigning  on  her  good-natured 
face — "  it  may  be  a  laughing  matter  to  you,  but 
I  assure  you  it  is  none  to  me." 

He  hesitates,  undecided  how  to  clear  himself  from 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  191 

the  imputation  brought  against  him  without  disobey- 
ing his  dear  lady's  commands,  and  with  an  outgoing 
of  real  friendliness  toward  the  fussy,  hot  woman,  who, 
at  the  expense  of  much  unpleasantness  to  herself,  is  so 
bravely  mothering  his  little  motherless  treasure. 

His  hesitation  gives  her  time  and,  apparently, 
inclination,  for  she  goes  on  more  fluently  than 
hitherto  to  take  up  her  parable  again  : 

"You  may  ask  why  I  have  not  spoken  to  her,  but 
if  you  knew  the  ins  and  outs  of  things,  you  would 
allow  that  it  is  not  so  easy.  I  have  tried  to  approach 
the  subject  once  or  twice,  and  she  has  treated  me 
with  derision — absolute  derision  !  " 

"  Derision  !  "  repeats  he,  in  indignant  defense  of 
the  absent.  "  How  unlike  her !  She  is  always  so 
scrupulously  courteous  !  " 

His  partisanship  seems  to  heighten  her  ire. 

"  Perhaps  you  may  find  her  so  ;  though  in  the 
beginning  I  have  seen  her  not  very  civil  to  you." 

"  I  certainly  never  perceived  it  " — wounded. 

"  I  do  not  want  to  say  anything  against  her  ;  she  is  a 
very  good  girl  in  the  main,  but  headstrong  is  not  the 
word  for  her  !  If  once  she  takes  the  bit  between  her 
teeth,  it  is  all  over.  Well,  we  have  no  one  to  thank  but 
ourselves.  We  have  spoiled  her  desperately.  I  sup- 
pose it  is  often  the  case  with  Indian  children.  We  had 
to  be  separated  from  her  for  so  long  that  when  we  did 
see  her  we  felt  we  could  not  make  enough  of  her." 

She  stops,  and  he  sees  tears  in  her  eyes  ;  but  any 
compassion  he  might  feel  for  her  is  drowned  in  the 
flood  of  light  as  to  her  meaning  that  pours  over  him. 
It  is,  then,  her  own  daughter  Euphemia  in  whose 


192  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS? 

defense  against  him  she  has  been  ruffling  her  feathers 
and  sharpening  her  beak. 

Ludicrous  as  the  misconception  appears  to  him,  he 
feels  at  once  that  it  is  a  perfectly  natural  one,  and  a 
relief  that  his  own  sacred  secret  is  still  intact,  mingled 
with  a  doubt  as  to  how  to  keep  it  so  while  clearing 
himself  from  the  accusation  brought  against  him, 
gives  her  time  to  go  on  : 

"  When  we  have  discussed  the  subject  of  her  mar- 
riage, she  has  always  given  us  plainly  to  understand 
that  she  means  to  consult  her  own  wishes,  not  ours,  in 
the  matter  ;  and,  within  certain  limits,  we  perfectly 
acquiesce." 

"  And  you  do  not  consider  that  I  come  within 
these  limits  ? "  again  reddening,  and  more  intensely 
than  before. 

She  looks  at  him  with  what  he  sees  to  be  a  per- 
fectly unput-on  astonishment. 

"  I  do  not  know  why  you  should  force  me  to  say 
these  painful  things  to  you  ;  but  I  must  really  refer 
you  to  your  own  common  sense  for  an  answer." 

A  flash  of  angry  amusement  darts  across  him  at  the 
absurdity  of  the  mistake  which  has  made  him  so 
unpleasantly  acquainted  with  Lady  Bramsh ill's  opin- 
ion of  her  social  superiority  to  him — for  what  other 
meaning  can  attach  to  her  sentence  ?  But  the  good 
manners  so  early  instilled  into  him  make  him  try  to 
keep  both  out  of  his  voice. 

"  You  are  laboring  under  an  entire  misconception. 
The  idea  of  winning  Miss  Bramshill's  affections  has 
never  once  crossed  my  mind,  nor,  I  am  very  sure, 
hers  either  ;  so  I  think  you  will  see  the  needlessness 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  193 

of  any  further  pointing  out  to  me  what  presumption 
it  would  have  been  in  me  if  I  had  entertained  such  a 
thought." 

She  is  looking  at  him  again  with  the  same  unaf- 
fected astonishment,  only  acuter  than  before. 

"  Presumption  !  What  does  the  man  mean  ?  You 
talk  as  if  you  did  not  know  what  I  was  alluding  to." 

"  I  think  you  made  your  meaning  sufficiently  clear 
— that  you  did  not  think  me  worthy  of  the  honor  of 
being  connected  with  you." 

The  red,  of  which  he  has  not,  even  so  far,  had  a 
monopoly,  spreads  from  her  good-natured  and  now 
deeply  distressed  face  to  her  neck. 

"  Great  Heavens  !  Talk  of  mistakes  !  You  are 
making  one  with  a  vengeance  now  !  Presumption  ! 
Why,  do  you  think  that  there  is  any  young  man 
whom  I  should  have  been  so  ready  to  take  to  my 
heart  as  you  ?  so  steady  as  you  are  ;  your  relations  to 
your  mother  so  beautiful  ;  getting  on  so  well  in  your 
profession  ;  the  son  of  my  dear  old  friend — if " 

"  If  what  ?  " 

The  hopeless  mystification  in  which  he  has  been 
floundering  is  growing  tinged  by  a  vague  alarm. 

"  If  it  were  not  for  the  one  dreadful,  dreadful 
drawback." 

"  What  drawback  are  you  alluding  to?" 

She  goes  close  up  to  him,  and  lowers  her  voice  : 

"  You  do  not  know  ?  No,  I  see  you  do  not.  Is  it 
possible,  and  have  I  to  tell  you?" 

"  If  you  please." 

He  knows  that  a  blow  is  coming,  and  has  the 
manly  impulse  to  string  himself  up  to  bear  it  pluckily. 


194  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

She  is  quite  near  him,  and  he  can  see  pulses  growing 
in  her  throat,  and  her  lips  moving  in  the  effort  to 
comply  ;  but  apparently  she  cannot  manage  it. 

"  It  is  impossible  !  "  is  all  that  she  can  bring  out  at 
last.  "  You  must  get  someone  else  to  tell  you — your 
mother." 

"  You  must  tell  me." 

She  had  begun  to  sidle  doorward  ;  but  his  tone, 
for  he  uses  no  other  method  of  compulsion,  arrests 
her.  She  sinks  her  voice  and  braces  herself. 

"  I  took  it  for  granted — very  stupidly,  I  own,  for 
people  whom  they  may  concern  are  always  the  last  to 
hear  things — that  you  must  be  aware  of  the — 
the " 

"  The  what  ?  " 

"  The  terrible  curse — disease — that  is  hereditary  in 
your  family." 

"  What  curse  ?     What  disease  ?  " 

"  The  disease  of — insanity." 

A  beam  of  relieved  incredulity  darts  across  him. 
Here  must  be  a  second  error,  absurder  than  the  first. 
Were  there  this  deadly  malady  inherent  in  his  blood, 
would  his  mother  have  allowed  him  to  blunder  on  in 
the  dark  all  his  life,  ignorant  of  and  unprovided 
with  the  armor  of  foreknowledge  against  so  hideous 
a  foe  ?  Impossible  ! 

"  Are  you  sure  that  you  are  not  mistaken — that 
you  are  not  confounding  us  with  some  other  famil}'  ?  " 

Probably  the  unbelief  of  his  tone,  try  as  he  may  to 
veil  it  with  politeness,  gives  her  the  impetus  neces- 
sary to  complete  her  task. 

"  I  wish  to  God  that  I  were  !     But,  unfortunately, 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  195 

since  I  lived  from  infancy  in  the  immediate  neigh- 
borhood of  your  family,  that  is  not  possible.  Your 
father  died  in  a  lunatic  asylum,  as  did  his  t\vo 
brothers  and  his  sister,  as  did  his  father  and  grand- 
father before  him."  She  pauses  to  take  breath,  but 
no  fresh  expression  of  incredulity  reaches  her  ears. 
"It  is,  unhappily,  one  of  the  best  authenticated  cases 
of  hereditary  homicidal  mania  on  record,  and  has 
been  quoted  as  such  repeatedly  in  medical  journals." 
She  has  done  her  work  effectually  this  time.  He 
stands  before  her  dumb  and  blanched — so  dumb,  so 
blanched,  that  her  tongue  falters  over  her  next  words  : 
"  I — I — thought — I  took  it  for  granted  that  you 
knew." 

She  may  continue  or  leave  her  halting  apology. 
He  neither  knows  nor  cares  whether  she  adds  another 
stone  or  two  to  the  cairn  she  has  built  upon  his  heart. 
But  the  instinct  of  civility  still  survives. 

"At  least,  I  know  now,"  he  says,  with  a  smile, 
which  she  is  not  fond  of  remembering  afterward. 
"I  am  obliged  to  you  for  having  enlightened  me,  and 
I  quite  agree  with  you  that  I  should  not  be  a  desirable 
son-in-law." 


CHAPTER  Xin. 

WHEN  he  goes  to  his  grave  Clarence  will  be  scarcely 
less  conscious  of  the  transit  than  he  is  of  how  lie  gets 
home.  The  ride  across  the  fields  is  a  blank,  except 
that  at  one  spot,  where  he  skirts  the  edge  of  a  hay- 
field,  the  smell  of  the  new-cut  grass  recalls  to  him  a 
thought  of  peculiar  sweetness  that  had  crossed  his 
mind  as  he  passed  it  on  his  way  to  The  Beeches. 

When  the  air  has  cai'ried  away  the  balmy  waft,  he 
relapses  into  blank,  with  no  feeling  beyond  that  of  an 
impulse  to  get  home  with  the  least  possible  delay  ; 
though  if  anyone  had  asked  him  the  reason  of  his 
hurry,  he  is  probably  stunned  enough  to  have  been 
puzzled  to  give  one.  Happily,  he  meets,  and  is  con- 
sequently questioned  by,  no  one. 

His  mother  is  not  at  church.  The  thought  that  she 
might  be  so  had  struck  him  with  a  vague  rage  of 
fear.  Had  she  been  so,  he  must  have  dragged  her 
even  from  the  altar  foot  to  answer  him.  Neither  is 
she  in  her  oratory.  She  is  in  the  drawing  room, 
quietty  working,  with  a  heap  of  colored  silks  making 
a  rainbow  beside  her,  while  she  listens  with  a  slight, 
absent  smile  to  Abigail's  communications  from  the 
window. 

"Someone  has  come  to  stay  with  the  Mitchells. 
She  has  given  the  parlor  maid  the  fare  to  pay  the 
cabman.  He  will  not  take  it ;  it  is  not  enough.  She 

106 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  197 

evidently  thinks  that  it  is  a  shilling  fare.  Ah  !  she 
has  given  him  another  sixpence.  He  is  driving  off." 

Mrs.  Clarence's  face  turns  toward  her  son  as  he 
enters,  like  a  sunflower  to  the  sun — ludicrous  com- 
parison for  anything  so  palely  small !  For  the  first 
time  for  weeks,  it  wears  no  apprehension  of  seeing 
coldness  or  aversion  on  his.  But  the  moment  that 
her  eye  encounters  his  it  loses  its  light.  He  stands 
beside  her,  with  his  back  to  the  girl  at  the  window, 
for  the  first  moment  so  speechless  that  she  asks  him 
in  a  frightened  whisper  : 

"What  is  it?" 

Then  he  finds  enough  voice  to  answer  : 

"  I  must  speak  to  you  alone — now — not  here." 

She  rises  without  a  word,  and  follows  him  out  of 
the  room,  the  unconscious  Abigail's  voice  sounding 
in  their  singing  ears.  He  leads,  and  she  follows, 
down  to  the  smoking  room,  whose  French  window 
stands  open  to  the  little  back  garden.  Through  it  a 
mat  of  white  pinks  is  sending  the  sun-warmed  spice 
of  its  fragrance.  Opposite  the  window  they  both 
come  to  a  standstill,  and  look,  pale  and  hai'd,  at  each 
other — she  with  a  dull,  terrified  sense  of  some 
enormous  overhanging  woe,  he  as  if  without  words 
he  would  force  an  answer  to  his  unspoken,  almost 
unspeakable,  question.  He  fails.  She  remains  mute 
in  her  trembling  before  him,  and  he  puts  his  dread 
into  speech. 

"Is  it  true?" 

"Is  what  true?" 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  do  not  know  to 
what  I  am  alluding?" 


198  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

"No,  I  do  not." 

Her  looks  are  as  of  one  on  the  edge  of  a  swoon,  and 
her  denial  is  hardly  audible.  Yet  he  draws  a  tiny 
drop  of  comfort  from  it.  She  is  a  rigorously  truthful 
woman,  and  it  is  a  denial. 

"  That — my  father — died — in  a  mad-house  ?  " 

His  key  is  no  higher  than  hers.  She  gives  a  sort 
of  stagger  ;  but  so  she  would  were  she  hearing  for 
the  first  time  a  terrific  calumny. 

"  Who— told— you— so  ?  " 

The  form  of  the  rejoinder  puts  his  sick  hopes  to 
death. 

"Lady  Bramshill." 

She  has  leaned  for  a  moment  as  if  to  prop  herself 
against  the  window  shutter,  but  at  his  answer  she 
stands  upright  again,  and  a  light  of  blazing  indigna- 
tion such  as  he  has  never  before  seen  in  them  flares 
out  from  her  great  tragic  e}-es. 

"Lady  JBramshillf  Sis  own  son!  How  dared 
she!" 

"  She  was  perfectly  right  from  her  point  of  view. 
She  imagined  that  I  wanted  to  marry  her  daughter. 
But  what  does  all  that  matter  ?  "  pushing  his  own 
explanation  aside.  "Is  it  true  ?  " 

Her  little  wrists  are  manacled  almost  brutally  by 
his  hands.  He  has  forgotten  compassion,  forgotten 
reverence,  forgotten  love.  He  remembers  only  that 
hideous  fear.  She  is  to  him  for  the  moment  only  the 
mouthpiece  of  destiny,  the  machine  by  which  he  is 
to  be  made  or  unmade. 

To  her  the  idea  has  not  the  dreadful  novelty  that 
it  has  to  him.  Her  mind  is  even  capable  of  the 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  199 

flashed  thought  of  how  true  an  intuition  had  been 
her  apparently  incommensurate  dread  and  dislike  of 
the  renewed  acquaintance  of  her  youth.  Then,  recog- 
nizing that  what  she  has  darkly  feared  for  him  for 
five-and-twenty  years  has  now  irrecoverably  befallen 
him,  her  lips  form  a  lifeless  but  unmistakable  "  Yes." 

"  That  he  died  in  a  mad-house  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  That  his  father  before  him  did  the  same  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"That  it  is  a  case  of  hereditary  lunacy  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"And  that  it  is — homicidal?  " 

"  Yes." 

Her  five  yeses  are  at  first  only  five  words  knocking 
at  the  door  of  his  brain,  but  after  a  moment  or  two 
they  are  let  in.  He  gives  a  sort  of  lurch,  and  her 
hands  tumble  out  of  his  suddenly  loosed  grasp.  She 
thinks  he  is  about  to  fall,  and,  snatching  at  his  arm, 
leads  him — since  a  momentary  blindness  seems  to 
have  come  over  him — to  a  chair.  Then  she  falls  on 
her  knees  beside  him,  and  with  her  handkerchief 
wipes  the  cold  sweat  that  stands  out  on  his  brow. 
Our  instincts  survive  our  reason,  as  we  all  know,  and 
a  vague  surface  sense  of  unfitness  in  the  humility  of 
her  attitude  plays  over  the  chaos  of  his  mind. 

"Thank  you,  mother,  thank  you  !  But,  please,  do 
not  trouble  ;  I — I  am  all — right." 

So  they  remain  a  while,  he  sitting  upright,  staring 
straight  in  front  of  him  ;  she  kneeling  humbly,  with 
all  her  riven  heart  in  her  great  eyes,  beside  him.  At 
length  he  speaks  : 


200  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

"  Did  you  know  it  when  you  married  him  ?  " 

"Oh,  no,  no!" 

"  Did  your  guardian  know  it  ?" 

"He  must  have  done." 

"  You  were  only  seventeen  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

Another  silence.  The  blind  look  has  gone  out  of 
his  eyes,  and  his  mind  is  shaking  off  its  paralysis. 
He  is  evidently  piecing  together  fragments  of  the 
past,  clearing  up  long  ago  intelligibilities,  joining 
them  on  to  the  present. 

"  That  was  why  you  never  would  go  out  into  the 
world  ?  " 

"Ye-es." 

Another  pause — more  piecing. 

"  That  was  why  you  were  always  in  such  terror  at 
the  idea  of  my  marriage  ?" 

Her  lips  move  ;  but,  no  doubt  to  save  him  pain,  or 
perhaps  because  her  powers  of  endurance  are  giving 
way,  the  assent  which  they  frame  is  not  even  so 
decided  a  one  as  its  hesitating  predecessor. 

"And  I" — with  an  accent  of  bitterest  self- 
reproach — "could  attribute  it  to  a  paltry  jealousy  !  " 

Again  her  lips  stir,  but  produce  nothing.  For  the 
moment  his  mind,  happily  for  him,  has  lost  sight  of 
his  own  ab}rsmal  fall,  and  is  running  in  the  track  of 
his  misdoings. 

"  I  used  the  argument  of  your  own  happy  married 
life  to  reconcile  you  to  mine  !" 

To  defend  him  against  his  self-accusations,  she 
recovers  voice  : 

"You  did  not  know — how  could  you  ?" 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  201 

A  new  interval  of  silence. 

"  How  soon  did  you  find  it  out  ?  " 

"  About  six  months  after  I  married." 

"  It" — his  voice  has  sunk  to  a  whisper — "it  came 
on  in  paroxysms  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  With  intervals  of  perfect  sanity  between  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  When  it — when  it  came  on  first,  did  he — did  he 
ill-use  you  ?" 

She  hesitates. 

"  He  was  not  accountable." 

"  He  was  in — confinement  for  the  greater  part  of 
your  married  life  ?  " 

"  No,  only  on  and  off  for  the  last  half  year." 

"  You  kept  him  at  home  up  to  then  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  At  the  peril  of  your  life  ?  " 

"I  was  not  much  afraid." 

Again,  even  at  this  moment,  but  now  in  tantalizing 
misery,  the  idea  of  the  intrinsic  likeness  between  his 
mother  and  his  love  darts  across  him. 

"  Was  there  any  warning  of  the  attacks  coming 
on?" 

"I  grew  to  know  the  signs." 

"  And  you  carried  your  life  daily  and  nightly  for 
four  and  a  half  years  at  a  madman's  mercy?" 

"  Yes." 

"  With  no  one  to  share  your  burden  ?  " 

"  Your  nurse,  Nasmyth,  knew." 

"  You  did  it  because  you  loved  him." 

Hitherto   she  has  answered  like  a  machine,    with 


202  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

lifeless  precision  ;  but  her  son's  last  sentence  is  a 
statement,  not  a  question,  so  it  naturally  goes  unan- 
swered. 

He  lifts  her  off  her  knees,  as  if  there  were  sacri- 
lege in  her  adoption  of  such  an  attitude  toward 
himself. 

"Mother!  mother  !  I  always  knew  that  you 
were  one  of  God's  saints  ;  but  I  did  not  know  till 
now  that  you  were  one  of  his  martyrs,  too  !  " 

And  then  the  two  poor  smitten  creatures  cling 
together  a  while,  and  mix  the  bitter  water  of  their 
tears.  But,  though  the  tidings  are  old  to  her,  and 
new  to  him,  hers  are  beyond  measure  the  bitterest. 

It  is  not  till  he  has  had  the  enormity  of  a  whole 
perfectly  sleepless  night  in  which  to  measure  it  that 
he  realizes  the  size  of  his  calamity, — that  he  recog- 
nizes it  in  all  its  bearings, — knows  that  it  is  commen- 
surate with  his  whole  future  life. 

His  mother  does  not  appear  at  breakfast,  and  he 
has  to  face  Abigail's  babble  alone.  He  even  eats  eggs 
and  bacon  without  choking,  and  echoes  her  puerile 
suppositions  as  to  her  neighbors'  affairs,  though 
across  his  mind  at  the  same  moment  is  darting  the 
grotesquely  horrible  wonder  whether  it  is  safe  for  her 
to  breakfast  tete-d-tete  with  him. 

It  is  not  till  noon  that  Mrs.  Clarence  opens  the 
door  of  the  smoking  room,  and  gives  him  the  shock  of 
seeing  what  his  discovery  of  her  secret  has  cost  her. 
In  her  eyes  he  reads  that  her  own  consternation  at  the 
change  in  his  appearance  is  not  less.  lie  takes  her  in 
his  arms  with  the  tenderest  compassion. 

"  You  poor  soul !  you  have  not  slept  ?" 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDISV  203 

Her  eyelids  quiver. 

"  '  Macbeth  hath  murdered  sleep  ! ' "  she  answers, 
with  a  little  stony  smile. 

"And  yet  to  you  it  is  no  new  thing;  and  as  to 
me," — with  a  look  of  b'raced  nerves, — "thank  God 
for  having  let  me  learn  it  in  time  !  " 

"In  time?" 

"It  is  an  ill-wind  " — with  an  exceeding  bitter  little 
laugh — "  that  blows  nobody  any  good.  You  are 
secure  now  that  no  one  will  ever  rob  you  of  your 
precious  son  !  "  Then,  as  she  looks  at  him  with  only 
a  dawning  of  comprehension  :  "  I  must  go  and  tell 
her  to-day.  It  is  not  a  thing  that  one  could  very  well 
icrite,  and  I " — a  slight  uncertainty  in  the  hitherto 
well  sustained  tone — "  I  should  like  to  see  her  once 
again." 

His  mother  has  been  lying,  with  a  half-extinguished 
look,  in  a  long  chair  ;  but  at  his  words  she  raises 
herself. 

"  You  are  going  to  tell  her  ?  " 

«  yes." 

"  And  you  think," — is  her  accent  one  of  incredulity, 
or  hope,  or  only  mere  wretchedness  ? — "  and  you  think 
— you  believe — that  she  will  give  you  up?" 

"  I  am  as  certain  as  that  I  stand  here," — the  woe  of 
liis  face  made  almost  bright  by  a  quick  light  of  con- 
fident love, — "  that  she  will  not." 

«  Then " 

"  I  shall  not  give  her  the  chance." 

The  sudden  drop  of  his  tone,  the  return — tenfold 
intensified  by  its  second  of  illumination — of  the 
outer  darkness  in  his  face,  rouse  her. 


204  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

"  Do  nothing  in  a  hurry  !  "  she  cries,  with  a  hoarse 
tremble  in  her  voice.  "  Wait  a  little.  If  her  father 
is  so  anxious  to  be  rid  of  her, — if  her  home  is  so 
unhappy " 

But  the  sternness  of  his  look  as  he  almost  pushes 
her  from  him  makes  her  falter  away  into  silence. 

"  You  are  forgetting  what  a  marriage-gift  I  bring 
my  wife  !  " 

"  There  must  be  an  end  to  it  some  time  or  other," 
she  says,  in  a  breathless  whisper  ;  "  the  curse  must 
wear  out  in  time.  Why  not  now  f  Why  not  with 
you ;  you,  who  have  always  been  so  faultlessly  healthy 
and  sound  in  mind  and  body  ;  you,  who  have  never 
had  ache  or  pain  since  the  day  of  your  birth  "—the 
pride  of  a  lifetime  piercing  even  now  through  the 
misery  of  her  tone  ;  "  yoii,  whom  people  used  to  stop 
in  the  street  when  you  were  a  little  child  to  admire 
your  strength  and  your  beauty  ;  you,  who,  from  one 
side  at  least,  inherit  no  smallest  taint?  "  Her  speech 
has  grown  rapider  and  rapider,  and  by  this  time  she 
has  tightly  enlaced  him  with  her  arms.  "  Do  nothing 
yet  !  I  adjure  you,  wait,  wait !  " 

She  stops  exhausted,  but  still  convulsively  pressing 
him  in  her  arms,  as  if  to  force  consent  out  of  him  by 
the  strenuousness  of  that  embrace. 

Even  at  this  moment  he  is  capable  of  a  wonder- 
struck  thought  that  the  frenzy  of  her  supplication  is 
directed  toward  preventing  his  giving  up  that  rela- 
tion, her  distaste  for  which  had  gone  nigh  to  making 
the  only  breach  in  their  lives  between  them. 

The  recognition  of  the  utter  unselfishness  of  her 
pleading  adds  one  more  pang  of  bitter  tenderness  to 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  205 

the  sum  of  his  affection  for  her.  He  puts  his  hand 
very  softly,  though  resolutely,  over  her  mouth. 

"  Mother,"  he  says,  "you  would  not  make  it  harder 
for  me,  would  you  ?  You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that, 
having  learned  what  I  have  learned,  it  would  be  a 
crime  in  me  to  many  any  woman." 

Something  in  his  tone  tells  her  that  her  implorings 
are  vain.  Her  arms  drop  awa}7  from  him.  She  is  so 
little  used  to  be  demonstrative.  It  is  the  measure  of 
her  woe  that  it  has  betrayed  her  into  a  manifestation 
so  contrary  to  her  nature. 

Heavily,  heavily  once  again  silence  wraps  them. 

"  It  will  be  better  to  get  it  over,"  he  says  at  last, 
the  old  habit  of  deference  to  her  wishes  making  his 
tone  even  now  apologetic  for  this  contravention  of 
them.  "  I  have  looked  out  my  train.  I  shall  go  to- 
night, and  see  her  to-morrow  morning." 

"  Where  does  she  live  ?"  . 

"  In  Limeshire." 

"I  ought  to  have  known,"  she  says,  in  a  faint  voice 
of  self-reproach  ;  "  I  ought  to  have  asked  more  about 
her." 

"  It  does  not  matter  now,"  he  answers  calmly,  and, 
so  swallowed  up  are  all  lesser  emotions  in  the  ocean 
of  his  despair,  without  the  least  tinge  of  resent- 
ment. 

His  train  reaches  the  North  Country  station  for 
which  he  is  bound  at  too  early  an  hour  for  him  to 
present  himself  at  once.  He  walks  to  a  railway  inn, 
washes,  dresses,  and  forces  himself  to  eat  ;  then, 
hiring  a  dog-cart,  drives  the  three  miles  that  he  is 
14 


206  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

told  intervene  between  him  and  the  object  of  his 
quest. 

At  the  gate  of  an  apparently  untenanted  lodge  he 
stops,  and,  dismissing  his  vehicle,  enters  a  park  whose 
grass-grown  drive  and  neglected  timber  evidence  the 
moneylessness  or  indifference  of  its  owner. 

He  has  traversed  more  than  a  mile  before  he  comes 
in  sight  of  a  large,  bald  Georgian  house,  which,  as  he 
approaches  it,  he  sees  to  be,  in  the  ugly  fashion  of  that 
day,  unbrightened  by  any  surrounding  garden.  He 
mounts  a  perron  and  rings  a  bell,  but  he  has  plenty  of 
time  to  admire  the  blistered  paint  of  the  portal  before 
any  answer  comes  to  his  summons.  When  it  does, 
the  sound  of  withdrawing  bolts,  and  the  sight  of  an 
obvious  charwoman,  at  once  tell  him  that  the  brief 
visit  of  the  Comus  of  the  house  with  his  satyrs  is  a 
thing  of  the  past, and  gives  him  time  fora  flash  of — 
is  it  dread  or  hope  ? — that  the  daughter  of  the  house 
may  be  absent  too. 

But  the  woman  takes  his  card,  and,  marking  her 
consciousness  of  his  not  being  a  dun  by  requesting 
him  to  walk  in,  she  leaves  him  standing  in  a  great 
square  hall,  the  cold  tessellation  of  whose  pavement 
is  relieved  by  no  carpet  or  rug,  and  surrounded  by 
sheeted  forms  of  furniture.  Half-open  doors  giving 
into  large  adjoining  apartments  reveal  further  seas  of 
holland.  Is  it  possible  that  amid  this  state  of  utter 
dismantlement  anyone  can  be  living  ? 

He  is  left  to  ponder  this  question  for  some  time 
after  the  charwoman's  feet  have  echoed  off  into  the 
void  ;  but  it  plays  only  on  the  surface  of  his  mind, 
which  has  no  room  for  aught  within  it  but  the  leaden 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  207 

•weight  of  the  errand  on  which  he  has  come.  Yet, 
unconsciously,  the  manifest  signs  of  decay  around 
him — even  the  dirt  of  the  cornice,  to  which  he  idly 
lifts  his  wandering  look — add  to  the  sum  of  his 
misery,  since  it  was  from  all  this,  and  what  it  figures, 
that  he  was  to  have  rescued  her. 

He  must  have  been  left  to  his  speculations  for  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  before  the  sound  of  a  foot — a  dif- 
ferent one  from  that  of  his  first  introducer — falls  on 
his  ear.  It  is  light,  and  it  comes  along  with  even 
swiftness  ;  then  it  runs  down  naked  marble  stairs  ; 
then  it  walks,  springy  and  glad,  across  the  black  and 
white  diamonds  of  the  floor  ;  then  it  stops  at  his  side. 

He  dares  hardly  lift  his  look  to  the  sober  little 
face — sober,  as  he  knows,  only  from  its  effort  to  mask 
the  expression  of  a  too  bubbling  joy. 

"  They  could  not  find  me  at  first,"  says  a  voice, 
sober  too,  from  the  same  cause  as  the  face.  "  I  was 
setting  off  to  the  kennels  to  see  the  young  entry.  I 
am  glad  that  they  overtook  me." 

He  cannot  answer  or  explain.  It  is  worse  than  he 
had  expected.  The  sight  of  that  small  embodiment  of 
modest,  grave  felicity,  with  the  knowledge  of  what  is 
in  store  for  her,  holds  him  dumb. 

A  slight  look  of  surprise  just  passes  over  her  bright 
face,  but  it  is  gone  in  a  second. 

"Do  not  stay  here.     Come  to  the  schoolroom." 

She  turns  to  lead  the  way,  looking,  amid  the  mis- 
shapen, shrouded  forms  coldly  white  around  her,  like 
"  Love  among  the  Ruins."  As  she  walks  along 
ahead  of  him,  she  says,  in  a  voice  that  he  feels  to  be 
crestfallen  : 


208  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

"It  does  not  look  very  comfortable  ;  but  there  are 
not  many  servants." 

It  is  evident  that  she  is  attributing  his  silence  to 
dismay  at  her  surroundings.  Even  when  he  becomes 
conscious  of  this,  he  cannot  find  words  to  remove  the 
impression. 

They  go  echoing  along  miles  of  cold  corridors  and 
acres  of  tenantless,  wrapped  rooms,  till  a  loudly 
resounding  naked  stair  leads  them  to  a  door  which 
gives  entrance  into  what  is  evidently  an  older  part  of 
the  house.  The  passages  are  still  carpetless,  but 
their  narrower  size  makes  them  several  degrees  less 
loftily  dreary  than  those  already  traversed. 

His  guide  at  length  pauses  at  a  room  door,  and 
passes  in  before  him,  and  then  turns,  with  a  rather 
diffident  smile,  to  welcome  him  to  her  domain. 

"If  I  had  known  you  were  corning,  I  would 
have  tried  to  make  things  look  a  little  more 
cheerful." 

She  is  still  crestfallen,  under  the  influence  of  that 
misapprehension,  and  eyes  with  a  certain  deprecation 
her  paintless  bower,  with  its  threadbare  carpet  and 
decrepit  chairs.  He  must  speak. 

".I  did  not  know  it  myself." 

"Whether  you  were  expected  or  not,  you  are  very, 
very  welcome  ! "  she  says,  with  a  sweet  little  for- 
mality. "  Will  not  you  sit  down  ?" 

He  knows  that  in  the  depth  of  her  maidenly  heart 
she  must  be  marveling  at  his  stockfish  immobility — 
marveling  why  she  is  not  in  his  arms  !  He  has  been 
in  a  measure  stupefied  hitherto,  but  now  a  stream  of 
anguish  runs  like  melted  lead  over  his  heart  at  the 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  209 

thought  that  what  he  has  come  to  tell  her  is  that  she 
will  never,  never  lie  in  them  again  ! 

Oh,  why  not  once,  once  again  ?  He  cannot  com- 
municate his  curse  to  her  in  one  last  solemn  kiss  ; 
last — not  in  the  petulant  sense  used  by  hasty  lovers 
parting  for  a  day,  a  week,  a  month,  but  with  the 
hopeless  finality  of  death. 

Once,  ONCE  again  !  Her  voice,  a  little  discomforted, 
but  always  low  and  honeyed,  steals  into  the  midst  of 
his  temptation. 

"  You  see,  I  have  a  pleasant  aspect.  I  get  all  the 
morning  sun.  That  oak  just  outside  is  full  of  birds 
and  their  nests.  I  have  counted  twenty-two  different 
kinds  this  spring." 

He  has  for  the  moment  fought  down  the  fury  of 
his  temptation. 

"  And  you  live  here  quite  alone  ?  " 

"  There  are  the  servants,  of  course  ;  not  many  of 
them,  but  all  very  kind.  They  would  do  anything 
for  me  ;  and  I  am  out  all  day  at  the  kennels  or  the 
stables — at  one  thing  or  another." 

He  knows  that  his  brows  must  have  contracted 
at  this  brief  abstract  of  her  life's  employ,  for  she 
hastens  to  add  : 

"  You  know  that  I  have  an  old  nurse  who  still  lives 
here.  I  assure  you  I  am  not  badly  looked  after. 
Nasmyth  sees  to  that." 

"  Nasmyth  !  "  repeats  he,  momentarily  struck  by 
the  name  which,  long  half  slumbering  in  his  memory, 
had  been  recalled  by  his  mother's  mention  of  the 
one  person  who  had  shared  her  secret  ;  "  Nasmytli ! 
I  once  had  a  nurse  of  that  name  !  " 


210  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDI3  ? 

"I  remember  your  telling  me  BO  in  Eustshire.  I 
have  always  forgotten  to  ask  mine  whether  she  is  re- 
lated to  yours  ;  it  is  an  unusual  name." 

"  Yes." 

"  You  see  " — with  a  half-shy,  half-proud  smile — 
"  that  I  am  tussling  with  my  ignorance  " — as  his 
glance  rests  accidently  upon  a  volume  of  Kitchin's 
"  History  of  France,"  propped  open  upon  the  square 
schoolroom  table,  among  such  dissimilar  companions 
as  "The  Dog,"  "  Handley  Cross,"  etc.  "I  have 
borrowed  it  from  Mrs.  Bevis.  If  you  remember, 
you  were  so  much  shocked  at  my  talking  to  you  of  a 
string  of  pearls  that  Louis  XIV.  had  given  to  Diane 
de  Poictiers?  I  thought  I  had  better  begin  by 
studying  French  history.  I  do  not  make  much  of  a 
hand  of  it  yet,  but  I  dare  say  you  will  help  ine — by 
and  by." 

She  pauses  slightly  before  the  last  word.  His 
moment  has  come.  He  had  meant  to  lead  her  gently 
down  the  slope  to  the  whirlpool  at  the  bottom.  Now 
he  must  hurl  her,  without  warning,  over  the  precipice. 

"Honor,  there  will  be  no  by  and  by  for  us.  That 
is  what  I  have  come  to  tell  you  !  " 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THIS  is  his  idea  of  breaking  his  news  !  The  shock 
is  so  sudden,  so  absolutely  unlocked  and  unprepared 
for,  that  the  faintly  staining  blush  with  which  she 
had  alluded  to  their  joint  future  is  still  lingering 
while  a  slow  and  apparently  difficult  comprehension 
of  his  words  dawns  upon  her.  Her  niind  always 
moves  slowly,  and  among  his  minutes  of  acutest  tor- 
ment he  afterward  sets  high  that  one  in  which  he 
had  stood  by  and  seen  the  tardy  birth  in  her  eyes  of 
the  knowledge  that  he  is  renouncing  her.  She  stands 
perfectly  still  in  her  dart-uprightness — not  swaying, 
as  his  mother  had  done,  under  her  blow,  nor  with  any 
least  indication  of  imminent  swooning.  AVhen  the 
understanding  of  his  meaning  has  at  length  reached 
her,  she  even  speaks  : 

"  Your  mother  ?  " 

The  words,  though  low,  are  coldly  clear. 

"  No,  no  ;  not  mother  !     Do  not  think  that !  " 

"  What  then  ?  " 

"  She  was  ready — she  is  ready  to  take  you  to  her 
heart.  God  bless  her  for  it  !  " 

"  What  then  ?  " 

To  that  "  What  then  ?  "  he  knows  he  must  re- 
spond ;  but  though  he  has  had  two  nights  and  days 
in  which  to  frame  it,  he  cannot  bring  out  the  answer. 

211 


212  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

The  stunned  astonishment  of  her  face  is  stirred  into 
life  by  a  stab  of  hurt  self-respect. 

"It  is  my  upbringing,  then?  My  surroundings  ? 
You  are  afraid  to  take  a  wife  who  comes  of  such  a 
stock  ? " 

He  makes  a  gesture  of  passionate  negation  at  this 
most  innocently  cruel  reversal  of  the  truth.  If  she 
had  sought  intentionally  in  her  whole  armory  for 
the  weapon  that  would  inflict  on  him  the  deepest, 
jaggedest  wound,  she  could  not  have  been  more 
successful. 

She  pauses  another  minute,  and  puts  her  hand  to 
her  brow,  as  if  to  marshal  her  poor  thoughts  in 
decent  order,  then  sa}rs  with  steady  dignity  : 

"  It  is  because  you  find  that  you  do  not  care  enough 
for  me  ?  " 

He  lets  even  this  pass  for  a  moment  or  two  without 
contradiction,  partly  because  in  the  whole  storehouse 
of  language  he  finds  no  disclaimers  that  are  not 
impotently  inadequate  to  proclaim  his  denial,  partly 
because  the  idea  flashes  across  his  whirling  brain, 
"  Shall  he  leave  her  in  her  delusion  ?" 

The  one  thing  now  to  be  hoped  for  her,  in  her  rela- 
tion to  him,  is  that  she  should  forget  him  ;  the  one 
•wish,  that  in  either  honor  or  pity  he  can  frame  for 
her,  is  that  forgetfulness  should  come  as  quickly  as 
possible  ;  and  there  is  nothing  that  would  hasten  its 
arrival  so  much  as  a  belief  in  his  un worthiness. 
Shrined  in  the  sanctuary  of  that  clean  heart,  no 
unworthy  thing  can  long  abide.  But  whether  the 
lifelong  habit  of  truthfulness  is  too  strong,  or  the  pain 
of  the  idea  is  too  intolerable,  it  is  only  for  a  moment 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  213 

or  two  that  he  entertains  it.  Long  enough,  though, 
for  her  to  have  one  superlatively  bitter  moment  of 
humiliated  belief  in  the  hypothesis  she  has  suggested. 

"  Because  I  do  not  care  enough  for  you  ?"  he  says, 
repeating  her  own  words,  and  there  is  that  in  his 
accent  which  tells  her  that  whatever  calamity  is 
hanging  over  her,  at  least  it  is  not  that  supremest 
one.  "  No,  Honor,  it  is  because — I  do  care  enough." 
Again  he  halts.  With  his  whole  long  black  life  ahead 
of  him,  he  must  allow  himself  the  one  white  minute 
which  the  reassurance  sprung  into  her  wounded  eyes 
gives  him.  One  white  moment,  and  then  indefinite 
inky  years  !  "  I  must  give  you  up,  because  I  have  no 
right — I  have  never  had  the  right — to  ask  any  woman 
to  marry  me." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  are  poor  ?  " 

The  light  in  her  great  eyes  is  brightening. 

"  No  ;  would  God  it  were  that  !  We  should  not 
mind  that  much,  should  we  ?  " 

He  is  still — unworthily  as  he  feels — dallying  with 
the  exquisite  delight,  snatched  from  mid  agony,  given 
him  by  the  knowledge  that  she  is  longing  to  tell  him 
that  any  disability  he  can  lay  upon  himself  will  only 
centuple  her  joy  in  giving  herself  to  him.  And  she 
knows  what  poverty  is,  too  ! — that  large,  straggling, 
big-boned  poverty,  which  is  so  much  harder  to  bear 
than  its  neat,  compact  six-roomed  brother. 

"  Is  there  anything  against  you,  then  ?  Do  people 
say  anything  bad  about  you  ?  If  they  do,  whatever 
it  is,  I  should  not  believe  them  ;  and  even  if  it  were 
true " 

There  is  such  a  fire  of  faith,  and  almost  protecting 


214  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

valor,  emanating  from  the  whole  little  confident  figure 
before  him  that  he  feels  he  must  catch  her  to  his 
heart — that  heart  on  which,  through  all  the  veil  of 
her  perfect  modest}7,  he  discerns  that  she  asks  nothing 
better  than  to  lie — unless  he  secures  her  aloofness  by 
at  once  speaking  out.  Yes,  she  will  be  willing 
enough  to  keep  her  distance  from  him  then. 

"  I  do  not  know  that  people  have  anything  to  say 
against  me — anything,  that  is,  for  which  I  am  to 
blame  ;  but  since  last  we  met  I  have  made  the  dis- 
covery that  there  is  a  hereditary  curse  upon  me." 

Not  the  slightest  lessening  of  the  valorous  faith  in 
her  eye.  Her  lip  curls. 

"  Do  you  believe  in  curses  ?  " 

"  Unfortunately,  this  is  a  case  in  which  there  is  no 
room  for  disbelief — a  case  of  hereditaiy  disease — mad- 
ness !n  The  severing  word  is  out.  There  cannot 
be  any  doubt  as  to  her  having  heard  it,  j'et  she  draws 
a  step  nearei'.  "My  father  died  in  a  madhouse,  so 
did  his  father  ! " 

His  voice  would  natm'ally  sink  to  a  whisper  in 
making  this  dreadful  statement,  but  in  the  determina- 
tion that  there  shall  be  no  misapprehension  he  makes 
it  almost  loudly.  And  yet  at  the  end  of  this  sentence, 
also,  she  is  again  closer  to  him  than  before.  She  is 
drawing  a  long  breath  of  relief. 

"  Is  that  all  ?  " 

"All!  But  you  do  not  take  it  in.  I  have" — 
speaking  very  slowly  and  distinctly — "  hereditary 
madness  in  my  family — the  worst  kind  of  madness — 
homicidal  mania  !  "  Do  what  he  will,  lie  cannot  pre- 
vent a  dropping  of  tone  at  the  last  two  words. 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  215 

Her  only  answer  is — not  to  fling,  for  that  would 
imply  a  sudden  passing  impulse,  but  with  resolved 
quiet  to  bind  her  arms  about  his  neck. 

"  I  thought  that  you  were  going  to  tell  me  some- 
thing that  would  part  us." 

For  one  tranced  moment  he  accepts  her  embrace — 
giving  it  her,  indeed,  wildly  back.  Then  he  loosens  the 
warm,  delicate  fetters,  and,  stepping  apace  away,  holds 
her  two  hands  in  his,  to  insure  himself  against  her  in 
her  exaltation  unmanning  him  by  a  second  such  caress. 

"  You  do  not  take  it  in,"  he  says,  governing  his 
utterance,  though  his  breath  comes  short:  "  I  have 
homicidal  madness  in  my  blood!  My  father,  my 
grandfather,  other  relations,  died  in  a  madhouse!  " 

"  What  are  your  father  or  your  grandfather 
to  me  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  mad  now,  but  since  I  have  the  tendency 
in  my  blood,  the  germs  may  develop  at  any  period 
of  my  life.  If  I  were  to  marry  you — if  I  were  to 
marry  any  woman — I  should  be  committing  a  crime! 
Do  you  realize" — seeing  little  conviction  and  less 
fear  in  her  eyes — "  that  if  we  were  man  and  wife  I 
might  go  mad  at  any  moment  and  murder  you  ?  " 

"I  do  not  think  you  would;  but  if  you  did" — 
with  a  slight  gesture  of  indifference — "I  have  never 
been  of  much  account;  it  would  not  matter."  For 
a  minute,  awestruck  love  and  wonder  drive  him  off 
the  lines  of  calm  reason  and  demonstration  he  has 
been  battling  with  himself  to  keep  to,  strike  him 
dumb,  and  she  has  time  to  add:  "And  we  should 
probably  have  a  good  spell  of  life  together.  If  Tarn 
willing  to  risk  it,  I  think  you  may." 


216  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

"  And  you  mean  to  say  that  you  would  not  be 
afraid  ?  " 

"Afraid!"  with  an  accent  of  lingering  reflec- 
tion. "  No,  I  do  not  think  so;  I  am  not  very  apt 
to  be  afraid.  I  suppose  it  is  because  I  have  no  imag- 
ination." 

"  And  you  would  risk  it  ?  You  love  me  enough 
to  hazard  putting  your  life  into  the  hands  of  a  possi- 
ble— perhaps  I  ought  to  say  probable — madman  and 
murderer?  I  ought  to  be  sorry,  but,  God  forgive 
me,  I  can't  help  being  glad!  " 

"  It  is  a  bargain,  then?  "  she  says,  strongly  press- 
ing the  hands  that  more  in  self-defense  than  in  en- 
dearment, hold  hers  locked.  "  We  take  each  other 
with  all  our  drawbacks.  It  is  but  fair" — with  the 
lightening  of  a  solemn  joy  in  either  eye — "  that  they 
should  not  all  be  on  my  side." 

But  at  that  he  comes  to  himself. 

"A  bargain!  "  he  cries,  starting  back,  and  freeing 
his  hands,  not  without  an  effort,  from  hers.  "  God 
forbid — yes,  God  forbid  that  I  should  ever  fall  as 
low  as  that !  Do  you  suppose  that,  had  I  known,  I 
should  ever  have  had  the  villainy  to  entangle  your 
life  with  mine  ?  Now  there  is  nothing  to  be  done 
but  to  disentangle  them — ;to  say  good-by,  and  to  say 
it  shortly." 

The  extremity  of  his  pain  has  lent  an  almost 
brutal  brusqueness  to  look  and  tone.  But  there  is  no 
quailing  in  the  eyes  that  meet  his.  She  folds  the 
arms  that  he  has  rejected  within  each  other  and 
faces  him. 

"  There  must  be  two  to  that  bargain.    ITou  may  say 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  217 

good-by;  I  never  will  !  If  you  ever  wanted  me 
really  —  and  you  did/"  —  with  a  look  of  high  confi- 
dence —  "you  must  want  me  worse  than  ever  now; 
and  I  —  I  want  you!  Mad  or  sane,  I  want  you  badly 


Her  voice  drops  a  little  in  her  deep  emotion,  but 
there  is  no  blush  on  her  cheek.  The  contrast  be- 
tween the  perfect  quiet  of  her  attitude  and  the  con- 
centrated passion  of  her  words  is  so  startling,  that  for 
a  minute  or  two  he  can  feel  nothing  but  the  domina- 
tion of  her  will.  If  he  does  not  make  a  supreme 
effort  his  own  will  melt  before  it.  Dut}r,  principle, 
will  shrivel  up  like  straw,  in  the  solemn  fire  of  those 
eyes. 

But  before  he  can  find  the  strenuous  words  which 
must  silence  her,  she  goes  on: 

"  There  is  no  one  else  to  whom  my  life  or  death 
matters.  They  do  matter  to  you!  You  do  not  know  " 
-—with  a  touch  of  wistful  pleading  that  yet  does  not 
affect  the  resoluteness  of  her  whole  strain  —  "  of  what 
use  I  could  be  to  you  in  fighting  off  this  horrible 
specter.  With  me  on  the  one  side  and  your  mother 
on  the  other,  do  not  you  think  you  could  keep  it  at 
bay?" 

It  is  with  a  look  of  such  high  inspiration  that  she 
asks  this  question,  that  he  feels  he  has  no  time  to  lose 
if  he  does  not  mean  to  let  her  conviction  carry  him 
away  into  the  bottomless  gulf  of  iniquity  which  an 
acceptance  of  her  offer  would  mean. 

"  You  must  listen  to  me,"  he  says,  with  an  authority 
which,  though  it  in  naught  lessens  the  mixed  flame 
and  iron  of  her  look,  yet  for  the  moment  insures 


218  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

obedience.  "  You  have  stated  your  side  of  the 
question;  you  must  now  let  me  state  mine,  and  bring 
this  bitter,  bitter  hour  to  an  end." 

"  It  has  no  bitterness  for  me  but  what  you  have 
put  into  it." 

"Even  if  I  had  the  incredible  baseness  to  accept 
the  sacrifice  you  offer  me — I  knew  that  you  would 
offer  it;  I  told  my  mother  that  you  would!"  in  almost 
triumphant  parenthesis — "there  is  one  consideration 
that  must  have  stopped  me." 

He  paused,  as  if  an  insuperable  difficulty  in  choos- 
ing the  right  words  barred  his  utterance. 

"  If  we  had  only  ourselves  to  consider " 

"  Whom  else?  I  have  nobody;  I  never  was 
glad  of  it  before.  And  you — do  you  mean  your 
mother?" 

For  the  first  time  there  is  a  slight  sign  of  trepida- 
tion in  her  look. 

"  No,  no  !  My  mother — God  reward  her  ! — had 
come  quite  round.  As  I  told  you,  she  is  most  willing 
to  take  you  into  her  heart.  My  mother — oh,  if  you 
knew  what  she  has  been,  what  she  has  borne  !  My 
mother  is  one  of  the  saints  of  God  !  " 

"Yes,  I  know  that  ;  you  have  always  told  me  so. 
I  mean,  I  do  not  doubt  it.  But  if  it  is  not  she,  who 
or  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  Even  if  we  had  a  right  to  do  what  we  pleased 
with  our  own  lives " 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  We  have — no— right — to — tamper — with — lives 
that  come  after  us." 

The  infinitely  difficult  words  are  out,  and  with  a 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  219 

colossal  effort  he  has  spoken  them  clearly  and  col- 
lectedly. 

She  has  been  awaiting  them  with  the  same  exalted 
confidence  as  has  characterized  her  whole  reception 
of  his  communication — a  confidence  that  nothing 
which  he  can  utter  can  alter  or  weaken  her  resolution 
to  cleave  to  him.  But,  as  the  meaning  of  his  words 
penetrates  her  brain,  he  sees  a  darkening  and  cloud- 
ing of  the  whole  landscape  of  her  little  rapt  counte- 
nance. 

"You  mean  that  we  might  have  children  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  children  to  whom  I  have  nothing  but  a 
curse  to  bequeath." 

She  stands  a  moment  or  two,  intensely  thinking, 
her  face  falling,  falling. 

"  I  had  not  thought  of  that.  No,  that  would  not 
be  fair." 

She  had  been  standing  braced  and  tense.  Now 
there  comes  a  slackening  and  loosening,  as  it  were, 
of  all  her  powers.  Her  arms  fall  flaccidly  to  her 
side,  and  her  eyes  stare — the  heavenly  fire  of  gener- 
osity and  sacrifice  dead  in  them — straight  before  her. 

But  it  is  only  for  a  moment.  In  a  moment  she  is 
iron  and  fire  again. 

"It  would  not  be  fair  to  have  children,"  she  says, 
in  a  voice  that,  though  low,  is  not  hesitating,  nor 
does  any  tinge  of  shamed  red  alter  the  ivory  of  her 
cheek.  "  But  why  should  we  have  any  ?  Are  not 
we  enough  for  each  other  ?" 

For  a  full  minute  stupefaction  keeps  him  dumb  ; 
then,  in  a  voice  as  unassured  and  uneven  as  hers  has 
been  even  and  confident,  he  stammers  : 


220  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

"You  do  not  know  what  you  are  saying  !  " 

"  I  know  perfectly." 

The  words  issue  from  her  mouth  in  perfect  sad 
simplicity.  He  sees  that  she  has  lost  sight  of  all 
other  considerations  but  the  passionate  desire  to 
make  him  know  that  she  comprehends  the  full  scope 
of  the  sacrifice  she  offers. 

"You  think  now,  in  the  magnificence  of  your 
generosity,  tliat  it  would  be  a  small  thing,"  he  says, 
catching,  in  his  dire  need,  some  slight  reflex  of  her 
absolute  directness.  "But  think  what  it  would  be, 
as  the  years  went  on,  to  be  forever  tied  in  unescap- 
able  bondage  to  such  a  fear  as  anyone  who  shares 
her  life  with  me  must  accept,  and  shut  out  forever 
from  the  hope  of  motherhood." 

There  is  no  smallest  relaxing  of  the  iron  lines  in 
her  face. 

"Children  are  but  a  doubtful  good,"  she  says 
sententiously. 

"Even  if  I  escape  my  doom, — it  is  quite  possible 
that  I  may, — its  shadow  must  always  be  upon  my 
life.  You  must  know  that  I  can  never  again  be  the 
same  man  I  have  been." 

Silence,  but  the  silence  of  a  rock  against  which  the 
noisy  waves  break  in  sprayey  futility. 

"  I  do  not  myself  yet  realize  the  full  bearing  of 
what  I  have  learned,"  he  says,  putting  his  hand  to 
his  head  with  a  look  of  confused  misery  ;  "  but  I 
know  that  it  is  commensurate  with  my  life — that 
there  is  no  part  of  it  which  it  does  not  affect.  When 
I  first  tried  to  grasp  it,  the  one  thing  that  I  could  get 
firm  hold  of  was  this — this — that  I  have  come  here 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARi'BDIS  ?  221 

to-day  for.  You  must  understand  that  it  was  not  I 
who  asked  you  to  marry  me  at  The  Beeches.  I 
should  never  have  been  such  a  scoundrel " 

"  It  was  you  who  asked  me  !  "  She  takes  away 
speech  from  his  stammering  lips.  "  Have  you  for- 
gotten so  soon  ?  You  said  to  me,  '  Hast  thou  any 
jniiid  of  me?'  And  I  answered,  '  I  have  even  great 
mind  of  thee.'  I  never  spoke  a  truer  word  in  my 
life.  I  have  even  great  mind  of  thee." 

She  tenders  no  caress  such  as  would  match  the  ab- 
solute surrender  of  her  words,  such  as  earlier  she  had 
innocently  offered  ;  but  her  eyes,  which  with  their 
dilated  pupils  seem  to  occupy  almost  the  whole  of 
her  small  face,  scorch  his  veiy  soul  with  the  intoler- 
able fervor  of  their  love  and  prayer.  He  clasps  his 
hands  before  his  own  eyes,  and  behind  them  he,  too, 
prays,  but  it  is  to  God  to  help  him  in  this  horrible 
temptation.  Then,  dropping  them  again  with  as 
sudden  and  violent  a  gesture,  he  gasps  out,  "  Will 
you  make  me  mad  before  my  time  ?  "  and  is  gone. 

The  Bramshill  family  make  up  for  their  delay  in 
returning  to  London  after  Whitsun  by  staying  to  the 
bitter  end,  when  once  they  go  thither.  The  late 
season  has  shown  more  appreciation  of  Euphemia 
than  the  early  one,  or,  at  all  events,  brought  her  more 
balls.  Those  festivities,  indeed,  have  in  latter  times 
shown  a  tendency  to  become  huddled  into  the  end  of 
July  ;  filial  and  conjugal  piety  keeps  the  wives  and 
daughters  of  ill-starred  members  of  the  English 
legislature  lingering  on  even  well  into  August. 
But  it  is  now  time  to  be  gone,  as  the  smell  of 
IS 


222  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

the  wood  pavement  and  its  throaty  dust  plainly 
proclaim. 

Miss  Bramsliill  lies  exhausted,  after  a  terrific  day 
of  accumulated  sultry  gayeties,  planning  rural  joys. 

"  It  is  very  odd  that  we  have  never  met  Harry 
Clarence  anywhere  this  season.  How  glad  I  shall  be 
to  see  him  again  ! " 

To  her  surprise  her  mother  does  not  "  rise,"  and 
the  spirit  of  mischief  prompts  her  to  try  the  effect  of 
a  stronger  expression  of  approval. 

"After  all,  what  a  different  feeling  one  has  to  a 
real  bond  fide  man  like  him  from  what  those  little 
decadent  boys  who  'bunch  '  one" — with  an  ungrate- 
ful glance  toward  the  floral  tributes  with  which  the 
room  is  filled — "  inspire  one  !  I  shall  send  for  him 
as  an  antiseptic." 

This  last  speech  does  produce  an  effect,  though  not 
the  one  expected.  Lady  Bramsliill  hurries  to  the 
window,  wide  flung  to  the  smutty  London  night  air, 
and  leans  out,  panting. 

"You  may  send,"  she  says  ominously. 

Euphemia  is  lying  on  her  bed,  too  tired  even  to 
begin  to  undress  ;  but  this  enigmatic  sentence  brings 
her  instantaneously  into  a  sitting  posture. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  I  may  send?  Of  course  I 
may." 

"  I  mean  " — in  an  extremely  troubled  voice — "  that 
however  much  you  may  send  for  him,  you  will  not 
get  him." 

In  a  second  Euphemia's  long  tired  legs,  no  longer 
conscious  of  fatigue,  are  flung  over  the  bedside,  and 
she  has  raced  to  her  parent  in  the  window. 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  223 

"  Have  you  forbidden  him  the  house  ?  I  remember 
now  that  since  that  mysterious  interview  you  had 
with  him  in  June,  he  never  came  near  us.  I  cannot 
understand  what  you  could  have  to  say  to  him  that 
needed  such  privacy.  Oh,  if  you  have,  what  a  mess 
you  have  made  of  it  !  " 

She  has  poured  out  her  words  in  fiery  haste,  and 
having  readied  her  parent,  lays  a  compelling  hand 
upon  her  shoulder,  the  moral  if  not  the  physical  force 
of  which  obliges  her  to  turn  round  a  disturbed  and 
guilty  countenance. 

"  I  did  it  for  the  best." 

"  You  did  what  for  the  best  ?" 

"  Whatever  I  did,  I  did  kindly  ;  for  his  mother's 
sake,  I  was  sure  to  do  it  quite  kindly." 

"  What  did  you  do  quite  kindly  ?  " 

Silence. 

"  Did  you  forbid  him  the  house  quite  kindly  ?  " 

"  Whatever  I  did,  I  did  it  for  the  best — for  your 
sake." 

"  For  my  sake  ?  " 

"  I  thought — apparently  I  was  wrong,  but  one  can 
only  judge  by  appearances — that,  unconsciously,  with- 
out any  dishonorable  intention,  lie  was  growing 
fonder  of  you  than  lie  had  any  right  to  be." 

"  Any  right  to  be  f  Why,  in  Heaven's  name, 
should  not  he  be  fond  of  me  if  he  chose  ?  Oh,  if  you 
would  but  allow  me  to  manage  my  own  affairs  ! " 

"He  has  no  right  to  be  fond  of  anyone,  poor  fel- 
low !  and  I  thought  he  knew  it,  but  it  seems  he  did 
not." 

"  Did  not  know  what  ?  "  cries  Euphemia,  in  a  key 


224  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

of  the  most  exasperated  bewilderment.  "  Once  or 
twice  before  you  have  thrown  out  dark  hints  about 
his  past.  What  has  lie  done  ?  Has  he  cheated  at 
cards?  I  do  not  know  anything  else  that  a  man  may 
not  do  with  impunity  ;  but  you  would  not  have  had 
him  at  the  house  if  he  had  done  that.  What  has  he 
done?" 

"  He  has  not  done  anything  that  I  know  of,  poor 
fellow  ! " 

The  girl  gives  utterance  to  an  inarticulate  expres- 
sion of  excessive  impatience  ;  then,  as  though  a  sud- 
den light  of  comprehension  had  lit  up  her  intelligence, 
she  adds  quickly  : 

"  Is  it  because  his  father  was  a  drunkard  ?  As  if 
most  people's  fathers," — scornfully, — "  and  all  their 
grandfathers,  had  not  drunk  more  than  they  ought." 

"  He  was  not  a  drunkard  that  I  know  of  :  he 
was  " — seeing  that  she  can  no  longer  shirk  the  telling 
of  that  ugly  tale,  whose  last  utterance  had  been  so 
painful — "  he  was,  since  you  must  know,  a  raving 
maniac.  He  died  in  a  madhouse  ;  so  did  his  father. 
They  have  it — homicidal  mania — in  their  family." 

There  is  a  minute's  silence.  The  healthy  roses, 
which  not  even  the  burning  of  the  midnight  electric 
light  had  chased  from  the  girl's  face,  have  disappeared 
ere  she  speaks  again. 

"  And  you  told  him  of  it  ?  " 

"  I  thought  he  knew." 

"  You  told  him  because  you  imagined  that  he  was 
in  love  with  me  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  If  I  had  had  but  an  inkling  of  it  !     He  who  hates 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  225 

big  women  !  who  detests  girls  that  speak  disrespect- 
fully to  their  parents  !  who  only  tolerated  me  because 
I  talked  to  him  of  Honor  !  " 

"  Honor  !  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  it  was  Honor 
whom  he  was  in  love  with  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  do  ;  anybody  but  a  bat  could  have 
seen  it." 

"  Honor  f"  repeats  Lady  Brarashill,  in  a  tone  of 
almost  stupefaction  ;  "  that  little  black  thing  !  and 
when  you  were  by  !  " 

The  inveteracy  of  the  mother's  pride,  overstepping 
even  her  real  concern  at  the  mischief  she  has  done, 
gives  a  second  of  mollified  amusement  to  her 
daughter. 

"I  know  that  you  meant  it  for  the  best ;  but,  oh, 
you  have  made  a  mess  of  it  !  " 

Lady  Bramshill  turns  away,  and  begins  to  walk  up 
and  down  the  room. 

"  I  wisli  to  Heaven  now  that  I  had  kept  clear  of 
them  !  " 

"  I  am  sure  so  do  they,  poor  souls  !  " 

"  But,  after  all"— in  uneasy  self-justification — "it 
was  a  most  natural  mistake,  and  one  that  you  your- 
self did  eveiy thing  to  foster." 

"  Yes,  I  did.  I  wish  to  Heaven  I  had  not.  I 
thought  it  such  a  good  joke." 

"  And  its  being  Honor  instead  of  you  makes  no 
real  difference  ;  a  motherless  girl  in  my  charge " 

"  At  the  present  moment  mothers  do  not  seem  to 
me  such  an  unmixed  blessing,"  replies  Euphemia,  in  a 
tone  of  deep  irritation. 

Then,  seeing  with  some  slight  remorse,  which  yet 


226  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

breeds  a  still  deeper  vexation,  tlie  hurt  look  on  her 
parent's  large  face,  which  gives  an  ample  area  for  the 
play  of  her  feelings,  she  goes  on  : 

"I  know  that  you  meant  well  ;  but  for  the  future 
commend  me  to  people  who  mean  ill.  If  you  had  not 
told  him,  nobody  else  would  :  and  he  and  Honor 
would  have  gone  on  to  the  end  of  the  chapter  in 
happy  ignorance,  and  as  sane  as  the  rest  of  us — saner 
than  some." 

Lady  Bramshill  does  what  she  has  been  thinking 
of  doing  since  the  beginning  of  the  conversation,  and 
bursts  into  tears. 

"  I  am  sure  I  did  it  for  the  best,"  she  says  between 
sobs  suited  to  her  size — "so  fond  as  I  have  always 
been  of  Lucy — far  more  so  than  she  has  ever  seemed 
of  me — and  of  him,  too,  poor  fellow  !  I  always  stood 
up  for  him  when  you  called  him  a  prig." 

"  It  is  nearly  a  year  since  I  called  him  a  prig." 

"  She  ought  to  have  told  him — Lucy  ought  to  have 
told  him." 

"  I  differ  from  you  entirely  ;  I  think  she  was  per- 
fectly right.  If  he  knew  that  he  was  liable  to  such 
a  disease,  he  was  far  more  likely  to  develop  it.  Now 
lie  will  probably  be  in  a  madhouse  in  six  months." 

Lady  Bramshill  stops  sobbing,  and  stares  in  con- 
sternation at  her  daughter.  It  is  evident  that  this  is 
a  view  of  the  subject  which  has  never  before  pre- 
sented itself  to  her. 

"He  looks  so  thoroughly  sane,"  pursues  the  girl 
thoughtfully.  "Did  his  father  look  sane  ?  Is  he  at 
all  like  him? — in  person,  I  mean." 

"  Not  in  the  least.     His  father  was  a  small,  dark 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  227 

man  with  a  big  bead.  No,  Hany  is  quite  unlike 
bim." 

"  A  small,  dark  maniac  witb  a  big  head !  "  repeats 
Enphernia,  in  a  tone  of  the  profoundest  compassion. 
"  Poor  Mrs.  Clarence  ! " 

"  He  lias  not  a  look  of  his  father.  If  Lucy  were 
not  such  a  saint,  one  might  really  have  thought " — 
then,  pulling  herself  up — "I  do  not  know  what  one 
might  not  have  thought " 

But  though  Lady  Bramshill  leaves  her  speculation 
unexplained,  her  daughter  has  not  been  born  in  the 
end  of  the  nineteenth  century  for  nothing,  and  she  is 
able  to  carry  out  her  mother's  unspoken  reasoning 
without  much  difficulty. 

"  Was  she  always  such  a  saint !" 

"  Always — alioays." 


CHAPTER  XV. 

MRS.  CLARENCE  has  need  of  all  her  saintliness 
when  her  son  comes  back  to  tell  her  by  his  looks — 
he  is  much  too  generous  to  do  it  in  words — that  she 
need  never  again  shoot  her  little  arrows  of  disparage- 
ment at  the  woman  he  loves.  The  "  little  black 
woman,"  whose  supposed  likeness  to  herself  she  lias 
so  resented,  and  all  other  women,  black  and  fair,  are 
cleared  out  of  her  path.  Her  boy  is  hers,  and  hers 
alone,  for  life. 

She  never  asks,  and  he  never  volunteers,  the  details 
of  the  parting  interview.  She  only  knows  that  he 
returns  to  heron  the  night  but  one  after  it — he  never 
explains  where  he  had  passed  the  intervening  night, 
but,  from  the  haggard  dishevelment  of  his  appear- 
ance, she  feels  sure  that  it  must  have  been  out  of 
doors — returns  to  her  with  ten  years  added  to  his 
face  ;  returns  to  sit  on  his  low  stool  and  lay  his  head 
on  her  knee. 

Neither  of  them  sheds  a  tear,  or  alludes  even 
obliquely  to  the  cataclysm  that  has  washed  away  the 
son's  future.  The  nearest  approach  made  by  either 
to  the  subject  on  that  first  night  is  when  he  lifts  his 
head,  after  an  hour  of  absolute  silence,  and  asks  : 

"  You  are  not  very  much  attached  to  this  place  ? 
You  would  not  mind  leaving  it  ?  " 

Her  answer  is  to  repeat  his  words  in  a  dreadful 

228 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  229 

voice,  in  which  his  ear  recognizes  an  anguish  superior 
even  to  his  own  : 

"  Attached  to  this  place  !  Mind  leaving  it !  " 
In  a  week  they  are  gone,  leaving  the  house  in  the 
agents'  hands,  and  with  no  trace  of  their  sojourn 
beyond  an  address  at  the  post  office,  and  a  stab  of 
remorse  in  Lady  Bramshill's  breast  as  often — which 
is  no  oftener  than  she  can  possibly  help — as  she  drives 
down  the  little  grass-grown  cul-de-sac  whence  she 
had  been  so  resolute  to  updig  her  girlhood's  friend. 

They  go — the  son  and  the  mother.  He  takes 
rooms  for  them  both  in  a  farmhouse  accustomed  to 
let  summer  lodgings,  and  with  a  certain  homely  com- 
fort  in  its  arrangements,  in  that  heavenly  country 
which  combines  the  highest  cultivation  with  a  rural 
wildness  of  heath  and  hillside — the  Surrey  of  Guild- 
ford  and  Godalmintr  of  Dorking  and  Shere. 

O'  O 

Since  no  one  of  their  acquaintance  knows  of  their 
neighborhood,  Mrs.  Clarence  will  not  be  tormented 
by  the  trivialities  of  visiting,  and  yet — so  peopled 
is  the  sweet  solitude — she  will  not  feel  lonely  ;  and 
her  son  has  an  even  shorter  distance  to  traverse  in 
order  to  run  down  to  her  from  London  than  he  had 
at  St.  Gratian. 

She  acquiesces  in  all  his  provisions  for  her  comfort, 
not  with  the  old  soft  pliancy  to  his  will,  but  with  a 
numbness  of  indifference  that  disquiets  him.  Some- 
times the  idea  strikes  him,  with  a  painful  oddness, 
that,  though  it  is  himself  whom  the  blow  has  struck, 
it  if,  site  who  is  felled  by  it.  Can  mother-love  further 
go? 

Often,  on  his  return,  he  finds  that  she  has  not  been 


230  '  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

out  of  doors  at  all,  but  has  lain,  day-long,  in  her 
chair  at  the  window,  looking  out  on  the  stretch  of 
heather  which  advances  its  ever-more-purpling  sea 
of  bloom  to  the  very  doors.  Sometimes,  on  the  other 
hand,  he  comes  back  to  find  her  exhausted  with  rest- 
less ramblings  for  many  hours, — ramblings  beyond 
her  strength, — and  from  which  she  returns  empty- 
handed,  not  having  had — how  unlike  her  old  self  ! — 
the  spirit  to  pull  one  of  the  innumerous  gay  blossoms 
which  the  chalk  formation  of  the  Hog's  Back  sends 
up  so  plentifully  along  its  multicolored  ridges. 

It  is,  perhaps,  good  for  her  son  that  puzzled  care 
for  her  state  distracts  him  in  some  measure  from  the 
monotony  of  his  own  ruin. 

One  night,  after  their  simple  dinner,  as  he  sits 
beside  her  in  the  unlighted  room — unlighted  save  by 
the  silver  sword  of  a  penetrating  full  moon — he  takes 
her  tenderly  to  task. 

"  Dearest !  "  he  says — of  late  he  has  used  many 
more  fond  words  to  her  than  he  was  wont  to  employ, 
but  they  bring  no  light  into  her  face — "  dearest,  you 
must  not  let  yourself  be  so  knocked  down."  He 
pauses  ;  then  goes  on,  "You  knew  it  all  along." 

He  feels  her  little  feverish  fingers  stir  in  his,  as  if 
she  would  withdraw  them. 

"  Yes,  yes." 

Her  agitation  is  so  obvious,  even  through  the  strong 
effort  of  her  suppression,  that  he  feels  he  must  at 
once  change  the  subject : 

"Are  you  getting  tired  of  this  place?" 

"  No,  it  does  very  well." 

"  It  is  certainly   very  peaceful !  "  looking  out  on 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  231 

the  silent  common,  out  of  which  the  moon  has  sucked 
all  its  amethyst,  substituting  her  own  argent. 

"  Yes,  very  peaceful." 

"  And  your  church  ?  Do  you  like  it  ?  Are  there 
enough  services  ?  and  is  the  doctrine  to  your  mind  ?  " 

She  hesitates  palpably. 

"  I  have  no  doubt  that  the  services  are  very  nice, 
but  I  have  not  been  there  yet." 

He  stares  at  her  in  ungovernable  astonishment,  the 
remembrance  flashing  upon  him  for  the  first  time  that 
on  the  one  or  two  Sundays  he  has  spent  with  her  she 
has  happened  to  be  too  languid  and  ill  after  a  sleep- 
less night  to  leave  her  Avindow-chair.  But  he  had 
attributed  the  omission  wholly  to  accident,  and  now 
learns  with  amazement  that  it  had  been  due  to 
deliberate  intention.  She,  who,  like  Malcolm's 
mother, 

"  Oftener  upon  her  knees  than  on  her  feet," 
Died  every  day  she  lived  " — 

whose  ardor  of  daily  worship  has  often  injured  her 
health — can  it  be  that  she  has  abandoned  those  prac- 
tices of  devotion  which,  as  long  as  he  can  remember, 
have  been  the  mainspring  and  backbone  of  her  life  ? 
His  own  faith  is  of  a  slack  and  dubious  kind  ;  but 
what  a  precious  possession  hers  has  been  to  him  he 
only  now  learns  by  the  shock  he  receives  at  the 
implication  her  words  carry  of  having  loosened  her 
hold  upon  it. 

At  the  blank  astonishment  in  his  face  a  slight 
quiver  passes  over  hers. 

"Shall  we  take  a  turn  on  the  heath?"  she  asks; 


232  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

"  It  is  really,  without  any  figure  of  speed),  quite  as 
light  as  day." 

And  he  knows  that  this  subject,  too,  is  closed. 

"Nana,"  says  Honor  Lisle,  addressing  her  former 
nurse  by  the  old  childish  title  whose  liquids  appear 
— judging  by  their  universality — to  be  the  easiest 
form  of  utterance  to  a  baby  mouth,  "  did  you  ever 
live  with  a  family  of  the  name  of  Clarence  ?  " 

Mrs.  Nasmyth  is  in  the  act  of  leaving  the  room — 
Honor's  paintless  schoolroom  boudoir, — but  thus  ad- 
dressed pauses,  and  looks  over  her  shoulder. 

"  Yes,  I  did." 

"  I  wonder  you  never  mentioned  them  to  me." 

"  I  ara  not  one  for  talking  much  ;  but  why  do  you 
ask?" 

"  Because  I  wanted  to  know." 

The  direct  answer  is  enough,  but  apparently  does 
not  seern  exhaustive  to  the  questioner,  for  she  shuts 
the  door,  and  returns  into  the  room  : 

"  Have  you  heard  anything  about  them  ?  Are 
they  alive  still  ?  Have  3rou  been  meeting  Mrs. 
Clarence?" 

"  Yes,  I  have  met  her." 

"  And  Master  Harry  ?  W]\y  he  must  be  a  man  of 
near  thirty  by  now  !  Have  you  met  him,  too  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

Her  manner  is  studied  in  its  colorlessness  ;  but 
either  it  is  overstudied,  or  a  lifelong  acquaintance 
with  her  has  made  the  servant  familiar  with  her 
modes  of  veiling  emotion,  for  she  looks  hard  at  her. 

"  And  I  that  have  never  seen  him  since  he  was  five 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  233 

years  old — dear  little  man  !  How  he  cried  wlien  I 
left !  '  Don't  go,  Nana,  don't  go  ! '  I  can  hear  him 
now,  and  I  never  would  have  left  him  of  my  own 
accord  !  I  have  never  seen  him  .since  he  was  five 
years  old,  unless " 

"Unless  what?" 

"Unless" — with  a  still  keener  look  at  the  half- 
averted  face — "unless  that  was  he — the  gentleman 
who  came  to  call  on  you  so  early  one  day  last  week. 
I  saw  him  from  the  workroom  window  as  he  was  go- 
ing away.  He  turned  and  gave  one  look  up  at  the 
house." 

"  Yes,  that  was  Mr.  Clarence." 

"  It  was  really  ? "  with  a  great  accession  of 
interest ;  "that  really  was  Master  Harry  ?  Dear  me  ! 
what  a  fine-looking  gentleman  he  has  grown  !  But 
lie  always  icas  a  grand  boy  !  Such  an  appetite  ! 
Such  a  pair  of  legs  !  So  that  was  Master  Harry  ? 
Ah,  then" — more  to  herself  than  to  Honor — "that 
accounts  for  it !  " 

"Accounts  for  what  ?  " 

But  Mrs.  ISTasmyth  is  silent,  apparently  lost  in 
retrospect.  Honor's  turned-away  face  has  inevitably 
veered  round. 

"  You  cannot  mean  that  you  recognized  him  after 
all  those  years?" 

"Recognized  him  !  Oh,  no!  Why,  he  was  only 
five  years  old  when  I  left  him  !" 

"Then  what  do  you  mean  by  saying,  'That 
accounts  for  it'?" 

"  You  must  not  take  one  up  so  sharp,  Miss  Honor. 
I  do  not  know  that  I  meant  anything  very  particular." 


234  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS? 

"I  suppose  you  mean  that  you  detected  a  likeness 
in  him  to  his  father.  You  certainly  could  not  find 
one  to  his  mother." 

"  No ;  he  never  had  a  look  of  her.  It  used  to 
make  her  mad  that  he  had  not." 

"Then" — with  a  sinking  heart — "he  is  like  his 
father— like  Mr.  Clarence?" 

One  would  have  thought  that  to  such  a  query  the 
"Yes"  or  "No"  would  come  easily,  and  without  de- 
lay ;  but  Mrs.  Nasmyth  hesitates,  and  her  answer, 
when  she  utters  one,  is  oblique  : 

"  Mr.  Clarence  was  not  much  to  look  at." 

"You  mean  that  his  son  is  a  handsome  likeness  of 
him?" 

"  No,  I  do  not." 

"  Then  " — rising  from  her  window  seat,  and  going 
close  up  to  her  nurse  in  undefined  yet  strong  excite- 
ment— "then  what  do  you  mean  ?" 

The  intensity  of  asking  in  her  somber  eyes  would 
seem  as  if  it  must  force  out  a  reply,  but  none  comes. 

"  What  did  }TOU  mean  by  saying,  '  That  account 
for  it'?" 

"As  I  told  you," — looking  uneasily  doorward,  a 
glance  to  which  the  girl  rejoins  by  placing  herself 
between  her  companion  and  the  exit, — "  I  do  not  know 
that  I  mean  anything  particular;  it  slipped  out." 

"  What  slipped  out  ?  " 

Her  strong  small  hands  are  gripping  her  nurse's 
wrists,  and  the  current  of  her  will  is  passed  through 
them  and  through  her  eyes  into  the  other's  being. 

"  Indeed,  Miss  Honor,  you  have  no  right  to  press 
me  like  this — just  for  a  chance  word,  too.  But,  since 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  235 

you  will  have  it,  you  know  as  well  as  I  that  people's 
real  fathers  are  not  always  those  that  give  them  their 
names." 

There  is  a  dead  silence — so  dead  -that  the  light 
noise  made  by  one  of  the  many  finches  in  the  oak 
tree  outside,  springing  from  twig  to  twig,  is  dis- 
tinctly audible. 

For  the  first  moment  the  meaning  of  her  compan- 
ion's words  fails  to  reach  Miss  Lisle's  brain  ;  then,  as 
its  ugly  import  passes  into  that  clean  little  sanctuary, 
she  drops  Mrs.  Nasmyth's  hands,  and  rather  falls 
than  steps  a  pace  backward. 

"  There,  now  !  you  would  have  it,  and  I  knew  you 
would  not  like  it.  It  is  not  a  pretty  thing  to  tell  a 
young  lady  ;  but  then  you  are  not  like  other  young 
ladies." 

Still  total  silence. 

"I  wish  that  you  would  not  look  at  me  like  that, 
Miss  Honor.  It  is  not  my  fault.  You  would  have  it ; 
and  you  have  no  one  to  thank  but  yourself." 

The  moral  shocks  that  make  milestones  in  our  lives 
are  not,  like  the  physical  ones,  always  accompanied 
by  appropriate  action.  After  that  first  falling  back, 
Honor  betrays  by  no  gesture  that  she  has  reached  one 
of  life's  turning-points  ;  only  her  eyes,  like  gimlets, 
drill  holes  in  her  companion's  face. 

"  You  have  gone  mad  !  "  she  says,  in  a  very  low 
and  perfectly  controlled  voice.  "  Do  you  know  what 
you  are  implying  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know  what  you  mean,  Miss  Honor,  by 
'implying,'"  replies  the  other,  wincing,  not  unnatu- 
rally, under  the  girl's  terrible  pointblankness.  "  As 


236  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

I  stand  here,  I  am  telling  you  nothing  but  the  truth. 
I  should  not  have  told  any  other  young  lady  ;  but 
you  are  used  to  hearing  such  things  talked  about. 
And,  indeed,  I  should  not  have  told  you  if  you  had 
not  forced  it  out  of  me.  I  am  sure" — half  whimper- 
ing— "  I  have  no  wish  to  hurt  the  poor  lady,  though 
she  did  not  behave  altogether  very  handsome  by  me. 
I  have  never  even  mentioned  the  family  to  you  in  all 
these  years — have  I,  now  ?  " 

The  question  goes  unanswered.  The  girl  stands 
stock-still,  with  the  live  coals  of  her  eyes  still  burn- 
ing, burning  into  the  servant,  while  within  her  an 
earthquake  seems  shaking  all  her  few  and  strong 
beliefs. 

Honor  has  no  great  cause  to  love  Mrs.  Clarence  ; 
but  yet,  seen  through  her  son's  eyes,  she  has — since 
first  the  girl  knew  that  son — stood  to  her  as  the 
embodiment  of  that  purity  and  godliness  which,  in 
her  own  life-circle,  she  has  known  only  by  their 
absence.  If  this  hideous  imputation  be  true,  chastity, 
piety  themselves,  must  have  gone  by  the  board,  or 
have  never  existed  at  all  save  in  the  brains  of  idle 
dreamers. 

"It  is  a  lie  !  "  she  says,  with  steady  concentration. 
"  You  must  be  a  very  wicked  woman  to  have  invented 
such  a  black  one.  The  lady  you  speak  of  is  one  of 
the  saints  of  God  !  " 

Unconsciously  she  has  caught  at  the  plank  which 
the  phrase  she  has  so  often  heard  Harry  use  with  re- 
gard to  his  mother  offers  her:  "  One  of  the  saints  of 
God!"  So  associated  is  the  term  in  her  mind  with 
the  pure-faced,  holy-eyed  widow,  that  at  the  word 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  237 

"saint  "  the  image  of  Mrs.  Clarence  rises  much  more 
readily  before  her  mental  vision  than  does  any  of  the 
s\veet  canonized  figures  that  enrich  the  Church's  page. 

"  I  am  sure  I  do  not  know  about  that,"  returns  the 
other  doggedly.  "  I  dare  say  she  may  be  now  ;  and 
I  am  sure,  poor  thing  !  I  do  not  want  to  make  her 
out  worse  than  she  was.  If  ever  anyone  had  an 
excuse,  it  was  she.  Dear  me  !  she  was  a  nice  young 
lady  when  I  first  went  to  live  with  her — just  sixteen  ! 
It  would  be  impossible  to  see  a  handsomer  couple 
than  they  made." 

"  Than  who  made  ?  " 

"  She  was  engaged  to  her  cousin,  a  young  gentle- 
man in  the  navy.'' 

"  And  married  him  ?  " 

"  Her  guardian  would  not  hear  of  it — she  had  no 
father  or  mother  alive.  He  was  a  having  sort  of 
man,  and  I  believe  he  thought  that  if  she  married  a 
poor  man  she  would  be  always  coining  back  upon  his 
hands,  and  so  he  broke  it  off.  And  not  long  after 
Mr.  Clarence  offered  ;  and  what  with  their  badger- 
ing her, — the  guardian  and  his  wife,  I  mean, — and  her 
own  spirit  being  so  broken  that  she  did  not  much 
care  what  became  of  her,  she  ended  by  taking  him. 
Of  course,  she  did  not  know  a  syllable  about  the 
madness.  They  took  good  care  to  keep  that  from  her." 

There  is  a  pause.  Honor's  nostrils  are  inflated, 
and  her  hands  clenched.  Self-controlled  as  she 
habitually  is,  it  is  a  long  moment  before  she  can  be 
sure  enough  of  her  voice  to  command  the  key  in 
which  she  must  speak  her  next  sentence. 

"  I  suppose  that,  so  far,  what  you  have  just  told 
16 


238  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

me  is  true  ;  there  is  no  reason  why  you  should  have 
invented  it.  What  you  implied  before  is  not  true, 
and  I  do  not  believe  it ;  but  since  you  have  brought 
such  an  accusation  against  a  lady  who  never  had  a 
wicked  thought  in  her  life,  I  shall  not  allow  you  to 
leave  the  room  until  you  have  told  me  on  what 
grounds  you  founded  it." 

The  old  servant  bursts  into  tears. 

"  Indeed,  Miss  Honor,  I  do  not  know  what  has 
come  to  you  !  You  never  spoke  to  me  like  that  in 
all  these  years  !  and  I  am  sure  it  is  not  my  fault. 

How  can  I  help  it  if  ladies  will But  there,  I 

shall  make  you  angry  again  !  You  had  better  let  me 
go,  and  think  no  more  about  it." 

"  You  must  tell  me,  please,  at  once." 

Something  in  the  tone  of  the  austere  young  judge 
before  her — that  something  which,  from  the  time 
that  she  was  five  years  old,  her  nurse  has  recognized 
as  not  to  be  resisted  whenever,  rarely  enough,  it  has 
appeared — tells  Mrs.  Nasmyth  that  her  tears  and  re- 
sistances are  vain,  and  with  one  more  protesting 
"  Well,  it  is  not  my  fault  ;  you  may  believe  it  or 
not,  as  you  choose,"  she  goes  on  : 

"  They  had  been  married  not  quite  six  months 
when  the  secret — about  the  madness,  I  moan — crime 
out.  Mr.  Clarence  had  a  slight  attack  ;  and  when 
she  found  out  what  sort  of  .life  she  was  in  for,  she 
nearly  went  mad  herself,  poor  lad}'  !  She  was  ill  for 
weeks  ;  and  when  she  was  convalescent  the  doctor 
sent  her  away  to  the  seaside,  to  get  up  her  strength 
— and,  of  course,  I  went  with  her.  We  went  to 
Southsea." 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  239 

Again  a  pause. 

"Well?" 

"  It  happened  that  the  Invincible,  her  cousin's  ship, 
had  just  come  into  Portsmouth,  and  when  she  and  I 
were  walking  on  the  Green  one  da}r  we  met  him  face 
to  face." 

"  Y-es." 

"She  was  very  lonely,  poor  thing!  She  had  no 
acquaintances  at  Southsea,  and  she  was  only  seven- 
teen and  a  half." 

"Yes!"  still  in  that  voice  of  severe  brevity  which, 
while  admitting  no  belief  in  the  told  tale,  yet  insists 
on  its  continuance. 

"She  always  had  been  dotingly  fond  of  him  since 
she  was  a  baby,  and  they  had  belonged  to  one  another, 
in  a  way,  poor  things  !  " 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  He  came  every  day  after  that.  I  began  to  get 
frightened  at  last  ;  but  it  was  not  any  good,  they  had 
quite  lost  their  heads." 

Again  the  narrator  stops,  but  is  not  as  immediately 
as  before  driven  on  by  the  listener  to  a  resumption  of 
the  story.  The  very  unwillingness  with  which  that 
story  is  torn  piecemeal  from  the  teller's  lips — her 
evident  want  of  animus  against  the  subjects  of  it — 
her,  on  the  contrary,  obvious  inclination  to  palliate 
their  offense — is  breeding  in  the  girl's  mind  a  reluctant 
creeping  belief  in  the  tale  ;  and  it  is  with  a  less  assured 
accent  of  incredulity  that  she  puts  the  question  : 

"And  Mr.  Clarence — was  he  mad  all  the  while?" 

"  Oh,  dear  no  !  it  had  only  been  quite  a  slight 
attack,  just  a  threatening — nobody  knew  anything 


240  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS? 

about  it  but  she  and  I ;  he  was  recovered  long  before 
she  was.  He  came  to  see  her  once  or  twice  at  South- 
sea,  but  she  would  not  have  anything  to  say  to  him. 
She  was  quite  gentle, — she  never  could  be  anything 
else, — and  she  did  not  reproach  him  at  all,  but  she 
could  not  forgive  him  for  having  deceived  her." 

~  O 

After  a  slight  pause  :  "  That  was  in  the  summer,  and 
next  spring  Master  Harry  was  born." 

There  is  a  matter-of-factness  in  the  statement  of 
this  last  event,  uttered  in  a  rather  lowered  but  per- 
fectly confident  voice,  which  makes  the  crawling 
belief  against  which  she  has  been  struggling  writhe 
itself  yet  a  step  further  into  Honor's  heart.  Her 
knees  seem  melting  beneath  her  ;  but  since  to  sit 
down  or  make  any  change  in  her  attitude  would  be 
a  confession  of  effect  produced  by  that  narrative,  the 
hearing  of  which  she  had  prefaced  by  so  passionate 
an  expression  of  disbelief,  she  keeps  her  former  stand- 
ing position,  and,  though  objects  swim  before  her  eyes, 
she  refrains  from  even  lifting  a  hand  to  clear  away  the 
blur.  But  it  is  beyond  her  to  speak  at  once,  and  for  a 
minute  or  two  the  only  sound  audible  is  that  of  a 
caged  goldfinch  sharpening  his  beak  agains  this  perch. 

After  that  interval,  dimly  feeling  through  the  chaos 
of  as  yet  unrealized  emotion  that  is  surging  within 
her  that  silence  itself  is  acquiescence,  she  compels  her 
lips  to  utterance  : 

"  Was  Mr.  Clarence  in  his  right  mind  at  the  time  of 
the  boy's  birth?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  as  sane  as  you  or  I." 

"  And  you  wish  me  to  believe  that  he  accepted  the 
child  as  his  son  ?" 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ?  241 

"Indeed,  Miss  Honor,  I  do  not  wish  you  to  believe 
anything  of  the  sort.  I  only  tell  you  just  what  hap- 
pened. Mr.  Clarence  never  took  the  least  notice  of 
the  child.  People  have  often  passed  the  remark  to 
me  how  odd  it  was  that  he  did  not,  and  Master  Harry 
such  a  beautiful  infant,  too  !  " 

"  Though  he  was  perfectly  sane  at  the  time,  he 
accepted  the  disgrace  quite  calmly — is  that  what  I  am 
to  credit  ?  " 

The  scorn  in  her  tone  is,  perhaps,  the  more  accen- 
tuated for  the  lurking  faltering  that  underlies  it. 

"As  I  have  told  you,  miss,  he  never  took  the  least 
notice  of  the  child  ;  but  I  suppose  in  a  way  he 
'accepted'  it,  as  you  call  it,  since  he  forgave  her." 

"  Forgave  her  !  " 

The  incredulity — a  little  forced  in  the  last  sen- 
tence— is  genuine  enough  now. 

"I  do  not  know  about  forgiving  her  really,  but  he 
let  her  live  on  in  the  same  house  with  him.  She  no 
doubt  told  him  the  whole  story  from  beginning  to 
end, — by  the  time  we  left  Southsea  she  was  quite 
desperate, — and  he — he  was  not  a  bad-hearted  man 
when  he  was  in  his  right  wits — and  he  knew  that  he 
had  done  her  a  great  wrong  in  marrying  her,  and  she 

was  not  much  more  than  a  child,  and  so  altogether 

But  he  never  would  look  at  Master  Harry  ! "  She 
stops,  as  if  relieved  at  having  ended  an  unpleasant 
task  ;  but  the  unbroken  silence  which  follows  appar- 
ently disposes  her  to  add  a  rider:  "  She  was  very 
grateful  to  him,  poor  soul !  I  will  say  that  for  her. 
That  was  why  she  never — till  the  last  half  year,  when 
he  got  beyond  her  or  anybody — would  have  him  shut 


242  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

up  during  his  attacks.  Like  many  mad  people,  he 
had  a  horror,  when  he  was  sane,  of  being  put  in  a 
madhouse.  She  did  not  seem  to  mind  how  much  he 
knocked  her  about,  nor  whether  he  killed  her  or  not. 
For  months  together  she  carried  her  life  in  her  hand, — 
such  a  little  delicate  thing  as  she  looked, — but  I  have 
never  met  her  equal  for  spirit — never!  If  she  had 
not  been  so  jealous  of  me  about  Master  Harry, — she 
could  not  bear  to  think  that  he  cared  for  anyone  in 
the  world  but  her, — we  should  never  have  parted." 

The  goldfinch  is  washing  now.  How  plainly  in  the 
stillness  the  tiny  squirt  of  water  over  his  back  and 
the  shaking  of  his  feathers  is  heard  !  The  voice  that 
breaks  upon  his  bathing  is  so  low  as  not  to  drown  its 
little  noises. 

"  I  have  listened  to  your  stoiy,  but  you  must  not 
think  that  that  means  I  have  believed  it.  You  have 
given  absolutely  no  proof  of  what  you  have  asserted." 

"  I  do  not  want  anybody  to  believe  it,"  replies  the 
servant  again,  half  crying.  "  I  had  far  rather  have 
said  nothing  about  it ;  only  you  would  have  it  out  of 
me.  What  can  it  matter  to  anyone  now  whether  it 
is  true  or  not?  Mr.  Clarence  has  been  dead  five-and 
twenty  years,  and  the  other  gentleman  went  down 
with  all  hands  in  a  gunboat  he  commanded  some- 
where Newfoundland  way  six  months  before,  and 
Mrs.  Clarence  has  turned  into  a  sort  of  saint,  you  say. 
I  am  not  in  the  least  suprised  at  that,  for  through  it 
all  she  was  a  very  religious-feeling  kind  of  woman  ; 
and  Mr.  Harry  will  never  know  a  syllable  about  it,  so 
what  difference  can  it  make  to  anyone  whether  it  is 
true  or  not  ?  " 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  243 

"  What  difference  can  it  make  to  anyone  whether  it 
is  true  or  not  ?  " 

As  the  words  pass  Mrs.  Nasmyth's  lips  the  answer 
to  them  flashes  in  a  sea  of  scorching  light  into 
Honor's  mind.  If  the  tale  be  true,  there  is  no 
obstacle  between  her  and  Harry. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

"  THE  judge  does  not  seem  to  have  had  a  bad 
journey,"  says  Euphemia  Bramshill,  looking  through 
a  letter  which  has  reached  her  by  one  of  those  after- 
noon posts,  which  now,  blessing  us  in  the  depth  of 
the  rural  districts,  almost  reconcile  one  to  living  in 
the  nineteenth  century.  "  Hamburg  is  very  full. 
The  prince  arrived  ;  the  Empress  Frederick  expected. 
He  has  made  acquaintance  with  the  woman  who 
wrote  '  Cesspools.'  It  seems  she  published  them  to 
support  a  sick  husband.  She  seems  to  be  a  good  deal 
lionized.  Ah,  how  unfortunate  !  He  crossed  in 
the  same  boat  with  your  victim,  Harry  Clarence. 
How  that  poor  fellow  must  hate  the  sight  of  any  of 
us  ! " 

"  Does  the  judge  say  how  he  was  looking  ?  "  asks 
Lady  Bramshill,  in  that  voice  of  thorough  discomfi- 
ture with  which  she  now  alludes — as  seldom  as  possi- 
ble— to  the  Clarence  family.  "But  no,  he  never 
notices  anything  ;  and,  besides,  he  does  not  know 
that  there  is  any  reason  for  alteration.  Was  she — 
was  his  mother  with  him?" 

"  Father  does  not  mention  her." 

"  That  is  strange.  She  told  me  that  they  ahvays 
made  their  little  trips  together." 

"  I  should  think  she  was  probably  dead,"  rejoins 

244 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  245 

Euphemia,  with  purposed  brutality.  ;<  She  always 
looked  as  if  she  had  not  much  of  a  grip  upon  life." 

The  remark  drives  her  mother  out  of  the  room  ; 
but  it  is  not  true.  Mrs.  Clarence  is  not  dead.  She  is 
still  at  her  Surrey  farmhouse  ;  but  now,  in  this  Sep- 
tember weather,  she  is  alone  there.  The  vacation  has 
sent  the  whole  machinery  of  the  law  steaming  and 
yachting  and  training  over  the  face  of  Europe,  and 
has  filled  one  member  of  the  bar,  who  has  not  yet 
taken  flight,  with  an  inexpressible  longing  to  be 
away,  too.  He  has  the  reverse  of  Hitter  Toggen- 
burg's  impulse,  who  found  solace  in  building  a  hut 
close  to  the  cloister  that  held  his  lost  lady,  and  dedi- 
cated his  life  to  watching  for  the  opening  of  her 
casement  and  the  daily  glimpse  of  her  unattainable 
nun's  face. 

Clarence,  on  the  contrary,  feels  that  if  he  could 
step  off  into  another  planet  he  would  have  a  better 
chance  of  getting  the  ring  of  his  love's  passionately 
begging  little  voice  out  of  his  ears,  the  look  of  her 
anguish-dilated  pupils  out  of  his  eyes.  The  absolute 
silence  in  which  humanity  toward  his  mother  makes 
him  endure  his  torments  ;  the  hideous  complication 
of  suffering  in  the  total  loss  of  all  hope  of  attaining 
the  one  thing  he  had  ever  ardently  desired,  coupled 
with  the  dread  of  the  awful  overhanging  doom  re- 
vealed to  him  so  late  in  life  that  its  terror  is  in  no 
degree  blunted  by  custom  ;  coupled,  too,  with  the 
need  of  feigning  impossible  cheerfulness  in  the  en- 
deavor to  lift  Mrs.  Clarence's  prostrated  spirits,  com- 
bine to  make  a  situation  which  by  and  by  he  has  to  ac- 
knowledge to  himself  is  beyond  his  power  of  bearing. 


246  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

Once  or  twice  a  ripple  of  indignant  bitterness 
against  the  companion  of  his  wretchedness  agitates 
the  surface  of  his  torn  mind.  Ought  not  she  at  least 
to  make  some  effort  over  herself  in  order  to  try  and 
alleviate  a  woe  which  must  be  so  much  acuter  than 
her  own  ?  But  as  often  as  these  npbraidings  have 
occurred  to  him,  she  seems  to  have  read  his  thoughts, 
and  to  force  herself  to  some  piteous  efforts  at  gayety — 
efforts  so  piteous  that  he  prays  for  the  return  of  her 
unvarnished  melancholy. 

The  strain  upon  his  mind  begins  to  tell  upon  his 
body,  destroying  appetite  and  undermining  sleep. 
Instead  of  quiet  slumber,  horrid  visions  begin  to 
assault  his  bed.  Defer  as  he  may  to  a  later  and  later 
hour  each  night  his  going  to  what  is  no  longer  rest, 
he  cannot  dodge  them.  They  are  patient,  and  await 
him,  even  till  after  dawn  has  broken. 

Nor  can  he  better  his  case  by  resolutely  lying 
awake  ;  for  of  late  odd  shapes  have  begun  to  dance 
and  curve  and  writhe  in  the  dark  before  him.  The 
cold  drops  of  sweat  break  out  on  his  forehead  as  he 
tells  himself  that  it  is  what  he  must  expect,  that  he  is 
coming  into  his  inheritance,  that  he  is  beginning  to 
go  mad.  It  is  in  vain  that  he  scourges  himself 
mentally  for  his  want  of  pluck,  his  failure  to  turn 
with  manly  resolution  upon  the  horrible  specter  that 
dogs  him.  The  nature  of  the  peril  sets  that 
ordinary  pluck  with  which  most  educated  British 
men  are  pretty  well  furnished  at  defiance,  and 
the  armor  that  will  defend  him  against  it  is  not  yet 
forged. 

By  the  arrival  of  September  it  is  clear  to  him  that 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  247 

his  one  chance  of  escape  from  an  entire  breakdown 
of  the  nerve  system  is  in  flight. 

It  is  with  misgiving  as  to  the  light  in  which  his 
mother  may  regard  a  proposition  which  in  her  normal 
state  she  would  hail  with  joy  that  he  makes  it. 

"  This  time  last  year  we  were  off  to  the  Loire. 
"When  we  are  to  go  this  year  ?" 

She  is  sitting  listlessly  sewing  at  one  of  those  fine 
embroideries  whose  execution  used  to  give  her  so 
much  still  pleasure,  but  which  his  eye  still  tells  him, 
by  its  lack  of  progress,  is  only  taken  up  in  his  pres- 
ence. Her  work  falls  into  her  lap,  and  from  the 
force  of  old  habit  a  ray  of  expectant  pleasure  darts 
into  her  eyes.  But  that  it  is  due  only  to  habit  is 
evidenced  by  its  immediate  extinction  in  a  darkness 
deeper  than  what  had  preceded  it. 

"  One  must  be  in  very  good  repair  to  live  in  one's 
boxes,"  she.  says. 

His  spirit  sinks.  Is  it  possible  that  she,  whose 
heart  has  always  answered  to  each  pulse  of  his  with 
such  almost  miraculous  accuracy  of  understanding, 
does  not  now  comprehend  the  bitter  need  for  change — 
for  escape — that  is  corroding  his  whole  being  ? 

He  strokes  her  languid  arm  with  one  of  his  gentlest 
caresses. 

"  It  would,  perhaps,  be  an  effort  to  you  at  first, 
dear  ;  but  it  would  do  us  both  good." 

She  does  not  answer  save  by  a  restless  turning  of 
her  profile — a  very  sharpened  outline,  as  not  for  the 
first  time  he  notices — toward  the  now  somewhat 
waning  heather. 

"  You  will  never   live  to  be  an  old  woman,"  he 


248  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

sa}rs,  with  a  mixture  of  intolerable  irritation  and  yet 
more  intolerable  remorse  for  feeling  it,  in  the  pres- 
ence of  tbis  shadowy  epitome  of  suffering,  "if  you 
take  other  people's  sufferings  so  much  to  heart." 

"  Other  people's  !  " 

The  bottomless  depth  of  tragedy  and — is  it 
reproach  ? — it  must  be,  though  it  looks  like  self- 
reproach — in  her  voice  startles  even  her  son,  used  as 
he  now  is  to  what  had  at  first  seemed  to  him  the 
unaccountable,  and,  as  it  were,  exaggerated  deeps  of 
her  depression. 

"I  am  afraid,  indeed,  that  in  this  case  we  have  all 
things  in  common,"  he  answers,  with  a  rueful  fond- 
ness ;  "  but  it  will  be  doing  me  a  left-handed  sort  of 
kindness  to  worry  yourself  into  yonr  grave  over  my 
troubles.  What  should  I  do  if  3rou  were  dead,  I 
should  like  to  know  ?  " 

Perhaps  it  is  that  this  letting  himself  go  of  a  per- 
son whose  love  has  always  been  of  the  unexpansive, 
unprotesting  sort  brings  home  afresh  to  his  mother 
the  shock  that  his  whole  moral  nature  has  received  ; 
but  her  answer  is  a  little  low  cry. 

"It  would  be  immeasurably  the  best  thing  that 
could  happen  to  you  !  " 

"I  do  not  quite  know  how  you  make  that  out,"  he 
answers,  dismayed  and  startled,  and  regaining  his 
self-control.  "  However  unhappy  we  are,  we  need 
not  let  ourselves  say  this  kind  of  thing  ;  we  only  cut 
each  other  deeper.  One  would  think,  mother,  that 
you  had  been  the  author  of  my  misfortunes  instead 
of  a  fellow-victim." 

He  gives  a  melancholy  smile  at  the  absurdity  of 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  249 

the  suggestion  ;  but  she  only  turns  away  again  with 
a  slight  and,  to  him,  incomprehensible  shudder. 

He  has  desisted  in  discouragement  from  any 
further  effort  to  persuade  her  to  try  to  relieve  their 
wretchedness  by  a  change  of  scene,  but  on  the  same 
evening  she  herself  resumes  the  subject. 

"  I  should  have  been  only  a  clog  upon  you,"  she 
says,  breaking  abruptly  into  the  dropped  theme. 
"There  is  nothing  more  uncomfortable  than  travel- 

O 

ing  with  a  person  who  is  just  not  up  to  the  mark; 
and  I  am  rather  run  down.  Where  shall  you  go  ?  " 

"  Go  !    And  leave  you  here  ?  " 

"Why  not?"  she  asks,  with  that  air  of  manu- 
factured lightness  which  always  hurts  him  more 
than  any  other  of  her  moods.  "Since  the  time  you 
first  went  to  school,  I  have  been  used  to  being  alone 
all  day.  It  is  only  the  evenings  ;  and  I  shall  shorten 
them  by  going  to  bed  early  and  getting  my  beauty 
sleep." 

But  he  looks  at  her  so  ruefully  that  her  airy  tone 
falters  away. 

"  It  is  the  first  time  in  our  lives  that  I  have  ever 
said  it  or  thought  it,"  she  murmurs,  brokenly  at  first, 
but  then  steadily,  "  but  we  shall  be  better  apart  for 
a  little  w^hile." 

"  Do  you  really  think  so  ?" 

In  the  depth  of  his  consciousness  he  recognizes 
that  she  speaks  truth  ;  but  yet  his  heart  is  so  sore 
that  the  idea  that  the  one  treasure  left  to  him  can  do 
without  him  seems  to  add  a  new  raw  to  his  wounds. 

"  We  hurt  each  other  more  than  anyone  else  can 
hurt  us,"  she  goes  on.  "  You  said  almost  the  same 


250  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

thing  yourself  a  short  while  ago — did  not  you  ?  If 
you  took  me  abroad  with  you,  though  we  went  to 

«/  */  '  O 

Central  Africa,  it  would  be  no  change  of  scene. 
When  I  told  you  this  morning  that  I  could  not  go 
with  you  because  I  was  run  down,  I  did  not  speak 
the  truth.  I  do  not  go  because  my  sharing  it  with 
you  would  deprive  you  of  any  good  you  might  gain 
from  the  trip.  And,  besides  " — holding  up  a  hand 
to  stop  him  as  she  sees  that  he  is  about  to  interrupt 
her — "  I  wish  to  be  alone." 

Into  her  voice,  so  faint  and  faltering,  now  there 
has  come  a  note  of  resolution  and  authority  that  only 
once  or  twice  before  in  his  life  has  he  heard.  It  fills 
him  with  a  sort  of  fear. 

"If  you  wish  to  be  alone,  there  is  no  more  to  be 
said." 

TVo  days  afterward  he  leaves  her.  Their  parting 
is  almost  wordless  ;  but  she  comes  out  to  the  farm 
gate  to  see  the  last  of  him.  The  road  runs  straight 
for  half  a  mile  or  more  across  the  common,  and  he 
stares  till  his  eyes  ache  at  the  little  shadowy  figure 
that  is  first  his  dear  mother,  then  diaphanous  gray 
draperies,  then  a  tiny  pale  blur  against  the  sky,  then 
nothing.  But  her  faint  "God  bless  you!"  is  never 
a  blur,  or  nothing. 

The  sudden  shock  of  the  deduction  drawn  from 
Mrs.  Nasmyth'fl  tale  has,  for  the  moment,  the  effect 
upon  Honor  of  a  hard  physical  blow  on  the  head, 
and  makes  her  for  a  little  space  unconscious  of  her 
surroundings. 

She  does  not  actually  swoon  or  fall  down,  but  she 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  251 

knows  nothing  about  anything  until  she  wakes  to 
the  fact  that  her  nurse  is  standing  beside  her  with  a 
glass  of  water  in  her  hand,  and  saying,  in  a  half-self- 
reproachful,  half-upbraiding  voice  : 

"I  ought  not  to  have  told  you,  but  you  would 
make  me,  and  how  could  I  know  that  you  would 
take  it  so  much  to  heart  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  want  any  water,"  answers  the  girl,  com- 
ing, rather  hazily  still,  out  of  her  clouds,  but  with 
the  immediate  impulse  to  clutch  at  and  recover  her 
lost  self-control  ;  "I  do  not  know  why  you  are  offer- 
ing it  to  me,  and  as  to  taking  your  tale  to  heart,  one 
need  not  take  to  heart  what  one  does  not  believe." 

But  to  her  own  spirit  she  holds  a  different  language 
when  she  has  at  length  gained  the  supremely  coveted 
boon  of  being  alone  with  it.  The  story  is,  as  she  had 
pointed  out  to  the  teller,  unsupported  by  any  evidence 
beyond  a  probably  imagined  physical  likeness.  It 
rests  solely  on  the  testimony  of  a  discharged  servant. 
It  is  antecedently  incredible — in  flagrant  contradic- 
tion with  the  whole  tenor  of  life,  the  ermine  purity 
and  continuous  holiness  of  the  person  of  whom  it  is 
told.  It  is  a  lie,  a  slander,  a  calumny  upon  the  face 
of  it  ;  a  lie  so  coarse,  a  slander  so  black,  a  calumny  so 
villainous,  that  its  mere  statement  is  its  refutation — 
and  yet  it  is  true  ! 

The  conviction  that  it  is  so  does  not  come  piece- 
meal and  by  degrees  to  Honor's  mind,  built  up  out  of 
tiny  mosaics  of  evidence,  such  as  Mrs.  Clarence's 
terrified  avoidance  of  society,  the  verv  excess  of  her 
church-going,  since  the  greatest  sinners  proverbially 
make  the  greatest  saints  ;  such  as  the  unwillingness 


252  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

of  the  witness  against  her,  the  friendly  feeling 
obviously  still  surviving  in  that  witness'  mind  ;  not 
out  of  all  these  fragments,  as  I  say,  is  conviction 
gradually  built  up.  It  comes  in  one  blinding  flash — 
a  flash  that  for  the  moment  takes  away  the  senses  of 
the  struck.  It  is  true,  true,  TRUE  ! 

The  burden  of  the  revelation  is  too  heavy  to  be 
borne  indoors,  particulai'ly  by  one  to  whom  a  roof  is 
always,  if  a  needful,  yet  an  irksome  covering  ;  so  as 
soon  as  she  can  rid  herself  of  Mrs.  Nasmyth's  fright- 
ened assiduities,  Honor  slips  out  by  a  side  door  into 
the  neglected  park,  where,  hiding  herself  from  every 
unlikely  eye  in  a  copse,  which,  shared  with  squirrels, 
had  been  a  playground  of  her  lonely  childhood,  she 
sits  down  on  the  fallen  and  never  removed  arm  of  an 
oak  tree,  blown  down  in  some  former  storm,  and  sets 
herself  to  face  the  tempest — mightier  than  that  which 
had  felled  her  resting-place — raging  in  her  mind.  It 
is  made  up  of  such  widely  diverse  and  madly  jarring 
elements  that  at  first  it  is  nothing  but  a  frantic  whirl- 
wind, in  which  she  can  distinguish  nothing  clear. 
But  by  little  and  little  the  hurricane  begins  to  resolve 
itself  into  its  component  parts — the  original  horror 
of  shrinking  disbelief,  the  shock  of  conviction,  and, 
underlying  both,  a  stratum  of  deep  and,  as  it  seems  to 
herself,  enormously  wicked  joy. 

Joy  !  for  if  this  tale  be  true — and  it  is  true — there 
is  no  longer  an}7  ugly  specter  thrusting  itself  between 
her  and  her  love  !  There  never  has  been  one  !  He 
need  never  have  come,  with  his  white  face,  to  tell  her 
that  grisly  tale,  which  has  as  little  relation  to  him  ns 
to  herself.  If  he  were  now  in  this  quiet  copse,  he 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  253 

might  push  through  the  brushwood  to  her — might 
take  her  in  his  arms,  and  lift  her  to  the  heaven  of  his 
heart,  without  God  or  man  having  any  right  to  gain- 
say it. 

She  smiles ;  and  in  the  height  of  the  blessed  illu- 
sion stretches  out  her  own  arms,  crying:  "Come! 
come  !  " 

But  the  sound  of  her  voice  breaks  the  charm.  The 
ecstatic  cry  dies  into  silence,  and  the  arms  fall  listless 
to  her  sides.  Of  what  use  is  it  to  either  of  them  that 
there  is  no  least  obstacle  between  them  if  one  of  them 
must  go  thi'ough  life  believing  that  a  frightful 
demon  is  forever  waving  them  apart  ?  And  who  is 
to  undeceive  him  ?  If  anyone  did  him  that  service, 
would  he  survive  it?  In  a  deluge  of  most  bitter 
recollections  there  come  pouring  over  her  memory  the 
numberless  indications  which  her  acquaintance  with 
him  has  afforded  of  his  passionate  cult  for  his 
mother — remembrance  of  her  own  jealousy  at  the 
high  apartness  from  all  other  women  in  which  he  has 
set  her — of  her  own  despair  of  ever  nearing  the  lofty 
throne  on  which,  in  the  aloofness  of  her  supreme 
purity  and  piety,  she  reigns  in  his  heart.  There  are 
illusions  which,  though  they  be  illusions,  yet  are  of  so 
stout  a  quality  that  with  their  extinction  is  coincident 
the  extinction,  moral  or  physical,  and  sometimes  both, 
of  those  who  cherish  them. 

He  would  never  believe  the  story  ;  and  whose  task 
could  it  be  to  force  conviction  on  him  ?  But  if 
he  did,  the  knowledge  would  kill  him.  Better — 
immeasurably  better — for  him  that  he  should  walk 
through  life  dogged  by  the  specter  of  hereditary  mad- 
17 


254  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

ness  than  tliat  lie  should  ever  learn  by  what  means 
he  has  been  freed  from  it. 

As  the  hopeless  misery  of  the  dilemma  comes  home 
to  her, — she  does  not  realize  it  at  once, — she  slips  off 
the  tree  trunk,  and  lies  along  upon  the  matted  under- 
growth, with  her  cheek  resting  against  the  lichened 
bark.  The  roughness  of  the  fiber  irritates  her  soft 
skin,  but  she  is  too  absolutely  overthrown  to  care,  or 
make  the  slight  movement  necessary  for  removing 
the  discomfort.  Though  there  had  been  no  one 
before  whom  to  exercise  self-control,  she  had  tried  to 
keep  a  brave  front  to  the  overthrow  of  her  happi- 
ness— tried,  from  the  force  of  habit  and  the  inherent 
enduring  strength  of  her  character  ;  but  this  new 
blow — this  knowledge  that  her  calamity  is  all  need- 
less, in  vain,  wholly  oversets  her.  It  is  not  God- 
sent  !  It  is  the  outcome  of  human  wickedness. 

To  do  her  justice,  it  is  not  the  enormity  of  her  own 
loss  that  crushes  her  nearly  so  much  as  the  agony  of 
her  pity  for  him — a  pity  that  swallows  up  even 
mighty  love — the  measureless  compassion  for  one 
doomed  to  stagger  through  life  under  the  overwhelm- 
ing weight  of  a  burden  from  which  lie  can  be  freed 
only  by  the  imposition  of  a  yet  more  intolerable  one. 
That  weight  seems  pressing  on  her  own  head,  and  she 
lifts  herself  into  a  sitting  posture  and  puts  her  hands 
on  the  top  of  it. 

"  It  would  be  a  good  thing  if  I  could  cry,  I  sup- 
pose," she  says  out  loud  ;  but  the  refreshment  of 
tears  is  leagues  away. 

The  change  of  posture  seems  to  bring  another 
aspect  of  the  subject  to  her  mind.  JEfis  mother!  It 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  255 

is  her  colossal  selfishness  that,  in  order  to  shield  her 
own  early  frailty,  is  dooming  him  to  this  lifelong 
hell.  His  mother  !  That  shrine  of  austere  purity  ! 
that  ermine  !  that  snowdrop  !  that  saint  !  His 
mother!  who  had  shrunk  with  such  repulsion  from 
the  girl  because  she  had  mentioned  Poppy  de  Vere  ! 
She  laughs  out  loud  ;  but  the  noise  of  her  own  grisly 
mirth  frightens  her,  and  she  looks  round  scared,  as  if 
expecting  to  see  some  ill  spirit  that  had  uttered  it. 

Her  thought  takes  a  slightly  different,  but  not  less 
bitter  road.  One  of  the  saints  of  God!  The  phrase, 
so  often  repeated  to  her,  comes  dinning  back,  and 
back,  and  back.  Well,  some  of  God's  great  saints 
had  been  great  sinners  in  their  day  ;  but  had  any  of 
them  ever  sought  to  cover  their  sins  by  so  monstrous 
and  murderous  a  deception  ? 

There  flashes  grotesquely  before  her  mind's  eye  the 
image  of  King  David  setting  Uriah  in  the  forefront 
of  the  battle.  But  even  that  treachery  pales  before 
the  iniquity  of  this  one.  It  is  her  own  son,  the  son 
of  her  devotion  to  whom  she  has  made  a  lifelong 
parade, — the  ludicrous  inaptness  of  the  word  to  any 
action  of  Mrs.  Clarence's  does  not  strike  the  girl  in 
her  state  of  tension, — whom  she  has  unhesitatingly 
sacrificed  to  her  own  good  name.  Surely  at  the  Last 
Assize,  when  our  Judge  weighs  our  offenses,  that  early 
lapse  will  seem  light  indeed  compared  to  the  iniquity 
of  the  selfishness  that  has  hidden  it. 

But  is  it  selfishness  that  has  hidden  it?  May  it 
not  be  the  conviction,  shared  but  now  by  Honor  her- 
self, that  in  giving  him  freedom  she  would  give  him 
death — death  moral,  if  not  physical  ?  May  it  not  be 


25G  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

her  love,  not  her  self-regard,  that  is  closing  her  lips  ? 
llo\v  could  she  tell  him  ?  How  could  any  mother 
tell  any  son  ?  And  how  infinitely  less  possible  would 
it  be  to  a  mother  so  high  throned  ?  Tell  him  !  In 
what  words  could  she  convey  such  a  fact  ?  How 
could  she  make  him  believe  it?  If  she  were  ever  to 
brace  herself  to  the  awful  rack  of  that  confession,  of 
what  use  would  it  be  ?  She  could  never  gain  credence 
from  him.  He  would  think  that  her  poor  brain  had 
turned  through  pity  for  his  sufferings,  and  would 
draw  over  her  sick  fancies  a  veil  of  reverent  tender- 
ness. And  if  by  some  miracle  she  did  get  him  to 
believe  it  ? 

The  girl  covers  her  face  with  both  hands.  Till 
now,  absorbed  in  the  immensity  of  her  pity  for  the 
man  she  loves,  she  has  felt  nothing  but  unspeakable 
indignation  against  the  author  of  his  destruction  ;  but 
now  an  ocean  of  compassion  for  that  most  wretched 
author  more  wholesomely  floods  her  being. 

What  must  that  woman  have  been  suffering  dur- 
ing these  last  days  !  What  plowshares  must  have 
been  furrowing  her  heart  !  What  a  hell  of  oscilla- 
tion between  two  terrific  alternatives !  What  a 
choice  of  cups  to  have  to  offer  him  to  drink — the 
incurable  blight  of  madness,  or  the  defilement  of  all 
the  sanctities  of  his  past  !  Honor  feels  that  it  is  only 
in  part  that  she  can  realize  what  the  tortures  must  be 
of  a  mind  held  by  the  seventy-and-seven  devils  of 
such  an  occupancy.  But  the  mere  partial  grasp  of 
it  tears  groans  of  pity,  in  which  her  own  grief  has 
now  no  part,  out  of  her  heart. 

"  You  poor,  poor  souls  !     God  pity  you  both  ! " 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  257 

She  sits  there  huddled  up,  with  her  elbows  on  her 
knees,  and  her  hands  still  covering  her  face,  as  if 
to  hide  out  some  blood-curdling  sight,  for  hours. 
What  difference  can  time  make  to  her  ? 

It  is  a  very  commonplace  sound  that  at  last 
arouses  her  to  the  consciousness  that  she  must  not 
spend  the  night  out  of  doors,  viz.,  the  scolding- 
notes  of  the  blackbirds  quarreling  over  their  roost- 
ing-places,  hustling  each  other  away.  She  slowly 
lets  fall  her  hands,  and  draws  herself  up,  stiff  and  a 
little  chilled,  and  the  light,  running  level  now  under 
the  tree  boughs  from  its  parent  fount  in  the  green 
and  scarlet  west,  makes  her  long-shielded  eyes  blink. 
The  blackbirds'  altercation  pauses  for  a  moment,  and 
there  is  no  sound  but  the  voice  of  a  harsh  jay,  ugly 
and  unmusical,  drowning,  save  to  her  practiced  ear, 
the  voice  of  a  little  tree  creeper. 

"  God  pity  us  all  !  "  she  says  out  loud. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

A  BURDEN  is  always  a  burden,  but  it  may  be  so 
adjusted  as  to  be  carried  with  upright  head  instead 
of  staggered  under  with  bowed  back. 

By  the  time  of  his  return  to  England,  in  latish 
October,  Harry  Clarence  has  learned  how  to  carry 
his.  It  is  still  there, — nay,  it  has  not  lost  one  ounce 
of  its  weight, — but  he  has  at  least  begun  to  teach 
himself  the  lesson  of  how  it  should  be  carried.  The 
heavenly  winged  lave  that  had  hovered  for  a  brief 
space  on  his  life's  threshold  has  forever  flitted  away, 
but  he  has  ceased  to  send  unmanly  crying  and  groans 
after  her,  bowing  his  head  in  acknowledgment  that 
she  was  too  fair  for  him,  and  acquiescing  in  her  re- 
turn to  her  home  in  the  skies.  The  phantom  of  in- 
sanity still  dogs  him  ;  but  he  has  taken  the  ugly 
thing  by  the  throat,  and  defied  it.  The  horrid 
visions  that  encumbered  his  sleep  have  withdrawn, 
chased  by  the  wholesome  influences  of  change  and 
travel  and  healthy  fatigue.  He  has  learned  not  to 
blench  from  the  contemplation  of  his  losses,  but 
rather  to  reckon  up  with  quiet  fortitude  what  is  left 
him. 

Happiness  is  gone — in  its  suprernest  form  of  re- 
quited love  irrecoverably  departed.  But  work  and 
duty  remain  ;  and  there  are  worse  things  with  which 
to  fill  our  little  life  space,  as  he  with  patient  courage 

858 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  259 

tells  himself.  Out  of  unusual  misfortunes  great 
careers  have  ere  now  been  forced,  and  though  there 
are  none  of  the  elements  of  greatness  in  him,  yet 
even  he,  handicapped  as  he  is,  can  still  walk  worthily, 
as  one  forever  ennobled  by  that  refused  and  foregone 
love  should  do. 

But  it  is  not  always  that  he  can  keep  at  this  high 
level.  He  has  failings  of  the  spirit,  against  which, 
when  they  come  upon  him,  for  a  while  he  struggles  iu 
vain.  It  is  mostly  at  the  sight  of  some  common 
homely  happiness  that  they  attack  him — some  quiet, 
humdrum  Sunday  couple,  innocent  of  anything  in 
themselves  or  their  circumstances  that  can  make  an 
agony  of  envy  in  another's  breast,  of  some  little  jolly, 
rollicking  child. 

At  such  moments  there  is  nothing  for  it  but  to 
grapple  his  mind  with  all  its  will-force  to  the  recall- 
ing of  what  is  still  left  him  ;  of  that  perfect  saintly 
love  that  has  enveloped  all  his  existence  in  its  warm 
white  folds.  His  mother  !  He  can  never  have  to  re- 
nounce her.  Xothing  but  death  can  deprive  him  of 
her.  And  she  will  not  die  ;  she  will 

"  Absent  herself  from  felicity  awhile," 

knowing  that  he  cannot  do  without  her.  His  heart 
is  overflowing  with  tenderness  toward  her  as  he 
nears  the  little  railway  station,  which  is  within  a 
mile  of  that  rustic  retreat  to  which  she  has  cleaved 
during  all  the  time  of  his  absence. 

His  heart  is  full  of  tenderness,  but  there  ai-e  also 
misgivings  in  it — misgivings,  but  not  as  to  her 
physical  welfare,  for  she  has  written  regularly  and 


260  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

calmly  to  each  address  lie  lias  given  her.  Besides,  a 
good  dependable  lady's  maid — not  a  friend,  for  Mrs. 
Clarence  has  always  shrunk  from  making  friends  of 
her  servants,  but  a  trustworthy,  conscientious  person 
— would  have  kept  him  informed  of  any  alteration  in 
her  health. 

The  misgivings  he  feels  are  as  to  the  state  of  her 
spirits.  Shall  he  find  her,  who,  unlike  himself,  has 
not  been  subject  to  the  wholesome  bracing  of  change 
and  travel,  who  has  been  confined  to  one  scene,  one 
very  narrow  set  of  surroundings,  in  the  same  con- 
dition of  morbid  prostration  as  he  had  left  her  in  ? 

The  wretched  irritation  which,  in  the  miserable 
days  before  his  departure,  had  assailed  him  at  the 
sight  of  her  hopeless  gloom  recurs,  in  some  degree, 
at  the  recollection  of  it.  If  it  is, — God  forbid  that  it 
should  be  !  but  if  it  is  so,  he  must — it  will  be  his 
plain  duty — use  stringent  measures  to  her  ;  point  out 
to  her,  with  no  mincing  of  his  words,  how  impossible 
life  will  be  to  them  both  if  she  does  not  brace  herself 
to  a  resolute  effort  to  be  cheerful. 

He  will  show  her — most  lovingly,  indeed,  but  so 
clearly  and  firmly  that  there  may  be  no  misappre- 
hension— the  unkindness  to  himself  involved  in  her 
indulgence  of  such  immoderate  despondency  ;  and  he 
will  show  her,  too,  how,  by  her  want  of  confidence  in 
his  goodness,  she  is  discrediting  that  God  upon  whom, 
up  to  this  last  most  crucial  trial  of  her  faith,  she  has 
so  steadfastly  leaned. 

Clarence  walks  up  the  short  distance  from  the 
station,  tempted  by  the  splendor  of  the  autumn  even- 
ing. Yet,  though  he  has  resolved  to  deal  roundly 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  261 

with  her  if  she  disappoints  him  in  the  matter  of 
recovered  spirits  and  recuperated  moral  energy,  he  is 
in  true  haste  to  embrace  her.  And  the  admonishing 
impulse  dies  down,  extinguished  by  pure  love,  as 
he  comes  in  sight  of  the  peaceful  homestead,  sitting 
in  a  gold  bath  of  evening  mist  on  the  burned  umber 
of  its  heath. 

The  gate  where  he  had  seen  her  lean  to  bid  him 
good-by  quickens  yet  more  the  hurry  of  heart  to  be 
reunited  to  her — to  hear  her  soft  cry  of  "Harry  !" 
For  has  not  he,  in  his  haste,  skipped  the  last  pausing- 
place,  and  arrived  twenty-four  hours  before  he  is 
due? 

He  is  up  the  straight  footpath,  bordered  by  tall 
autumn  flowers,  with  which  the  season,  late  as  it  is, 
has  dealt  leniently,  and  his  hand  is  on  the  old- 
fashioned  knocker  of  the,  as  he  knows,  never  locked 
front  door.  You  have  only  to  give  one  turn  to  the 
bright  brass,  and  there  you  are  inside. 

With  an  almost  childish  fear  of  being  balked  of 
the  treat  he  promises  himself  in  the  sight  of  her  glad 
astonishment,  he  almost  runs  up  the  flagged  passage, 
and  rather  noisily,  in  his  impatience,  opens  the  door 
of  the  little  parlor,  to  which,  despite  her  listless  lack 
of  interest  in  anything,  the  habits  and  instincts  of  a 
lifetime  have  made  her,  by  her  daintiness  and  frag- 
rances, give  a  delicate  drawing  room  air. 

As  he  enters,  the  perfume  of  her  familiar  dried 
rose  leaves  and  lavender  greets  him,  with  its  welcom- 
ing associations.  His  look  flies  at  once  to  the  long, 
low  chair,  lying  in  which  he  has  seen  her  pass  so 
many  dejected  hours.  It  is  empty  ;  and  a  flash  of 


262  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

mixed  disappointment  and  satisfaction  darts  across 
him — disappointment  that  their  meeting  may  be 
deferred  by  her  being  out  walking,  and  pleasure  at 
the  thought  of  its  being  an  evidence  of  increased 
activity. 

The  light  is  drooping  rapidly,  and  at  first  the  room 
seems  empty  ;  but  a  second  quick  look  around  shows 
him.  that  she  is  here,  after  all.  In  a  little  nook  of 
the  room  stands  a  bureau,  at  which  she  writes  her 
letters.  It  was  his  present  to  her  on  her  last  birth- 
day ;  and  at  it  she  is  sitting,  with  her  back  to  him. 
She  is  not  writing,  but  her  head  is  lying  on  her  out- 
stretched arms  in  an  attitude  of  the  deepest  de- 
spondency. 

She  is  no  better,  then,  than  when  he  left  her — giv- 
ing the  reins  to  the  same  indulgence  in  senseless  de- 
spair as  ever  ;  not  the  same,  indeed,  but  a  more  com- 
plete one,  for  scarcely  ever  before  has  he  seen  her  in 
a  pose  of  such  utter  abandonment. 

The  irritation  that  had  been  put  out  by  love  flares 
up  again,  and  there  is  remonstrance  mixed  with  the 
pained  tenderness  of  his  voice  : 

"Mother!" 

But  she  does  not  stir.  In  a  second  he  is  at  her 
side.  Her  face  is  quite  hidden.  He  can  see  only  the 
familiar  coil  upon  coil  of  her  splendid  hair  ;  and  just 
beyond  her  prone  head  a  letter  lying,  addressed  to 
himself,  and  with  the  ink  scarce  dry  upon  the 
envelope. 

Why  should  she  be  writing  to  him  when  she  expects 
to  see  him  in  twenty-four  hours  ?  The  thought  does 
not  occupy  the  millionth  part  of  a  minute. 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  263 

"  Mother  !  MOTHER  !  " 

He  has  her  in  his  arms  ;  he  has  carried  her  to  the 
window;  has  thrown  it  wide  that  the  air  may  blow 
upon  her  face  ;  has  called  madly  for  help. 

The  little  room  is  full  in  a  second.  She  is  laid  on 
the  floor,  and  water  dashed  in  her  face.  They 
beat  her  hands,  and  try  to  pour  brandy  down  her 
throat. 

"Mother!  mother!" 

But  her  son  may  leave  his  vain  calling.  Little  as 
we  know  of  the  mystery  that  envelops  the  state  of 
the  dead — perhaps  God  has  hidden  it  from  us  because, 
did  we  know  the  excellency  of  their  estate,  we  should 
be  in  too  mad  haste  to  overtake  them — little  as  we 
know  of  that  deep  mystery,  I  think  we  may  be  pretty 
sure  that,  even  at  his  voice,  she  would  not  have  come 
back  if  she  could.  Why  should  she  come  back  ?  Is 
not  her  work  done  ? 

"  Syncope,  resulting  from  failure  of  the  heart's 
action.  An  old-standing  cardiac  affection  ;  the  end 
precipitated  possibly  by  some  mental  shock  " — this 
with  a  look  of  interrogation.  The  usual  medical 
patter  upon  a  sudden  death.  "  Life  must  have  been 
extinct  about  half  an  hour  at  the  time  of  his  [the 
doctor's]  arrival." 

Half  an  hour!  Then,  if  her  son  had  driven  up 
from  the  station,  instead  of  walking,  he  would  have 
found  her  still  alive  !  This  is  one  of  those  superfluous 
agonies  that  often  add  their  tributary  streams  to  the 
main  river  of  a  colossal  grief. 

But    at   present  he  feels  no    agony.     Decorously 


264  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

listening,  it  strikes  him  with  a  curious  dry,  hard 
sense  of  having  been  an  unfortunate  circumstance 
relating  to  the  death  of  some  stranger  woman.  He 
listens  with  the  same  cast-iron  attention  to  the  weep- 
ing narratives,  interspersed  with  encomiums,  of  the 
lady's  maid  and  the  housewife. 

"  Oh,  she  teas  a  good  lady  !  Scarcely  ever  off  her 
knees  of  late,  and  never  missed  a  service  at  church  ! 
As  regularly  as  the  bell  went,  off  she  would  go  ; 
though  you  might  see  that  she  could  scarcely  keep 
herself  on  her  legs  sometimes." 

To  his  consciousness  there  seems  to  come  a  cold 
knowledge  that,  had  this  dead  woman  been  akin  to 
him,  he  would  have  been  glad  that  she  had  made  her 
way  back  to  the  well-head  of  waters  which  had  fed 
her  soul  through  life,  and  which,  ere  his  departure, 
had  seemed  to  have  run  dry. 

"  And  charitable  !  " — this  is  the  antiphonal  strain — 
"  and  never  giving  any  trouble  !  No  lad}r — nor 
gentleman  either,  for  the  matter  of  that — who  had 
ever  crossed  the  threshold  gave  so  little  !  And  never 
caring  what  she  ate  ! — eating  no  more  than  a  spar- 
row ! "  etc.,  etc. 

He  has  carried  her  upstairs  ere  this,  and  then 
returned  to  the  sitting  room,  where  by  and  b}*-  his 
would-be  comforters  leave  him  alone,  he  saying  noth- 
ing either  to  detain  or  dismiss  them. 

"When  they  are  gone  he  begins  to  walk  up  and 
down,  up  and  down,  vaguely  wishing  that  he  could 
feel  something,  while  around  him  the  quick-coming 
night  falls  and  falls.  By  and  by  they  bring  him  in  a 
lamp  and  tea.  He  thanks  them  civilly,  and  as  civilly 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  265 

rebuts  their  good-natured  insistence  with  him  that  he 
shall  eat  and  drink. 

When  he  is  once  again  alone  his  eye  falls  on  the 
letter  still  lying  on  the  bureau, — the  letter  addressed 
to  himself, — which  the  dusk  has  till  now  hidden  from 
him,  and  which,  in  the  stun  of  his  mind,  he  had 
forgotten. 

He  takes  it  up,  and  at  the  sight  of  her  handwriting 
the  almost  impenetrable  veil  of  mist  which  shrouds 
him  from  sensation  seems  to  lift  a  little,  and  he  knows, 
for  a  second,  that  beyond  that  veil  is  intolerable 
pain. 

The  curtain  falls  again,  and  the  pain  goes.  He 
stands  holding  the  letter  unopened  in  his  hand,  not 
even  breaking  the  seal.  Contrary  to  her  custom,  as 
he  feels  with  a  dull  surprise,  she  has  sealed  it.  What 
can  she  have  to  say  to  him  that  needs  the  safeguard 
of  a  seal  ? 

He  turns  it  over,  and  looks  again  at  the  superscrip- 
tion, then  afresh  at  the  impression  on  the  seal — a  little 
winged  Justice,  with  scales.  In  infancy  he  has  often 
played  with  that  seal,  and  idly  remembers  having 
asked  her  the  meaning  of  the  figure.  Still  he  does 
not  open  it,  but  stands  as  one  doubtful  and  mazed. 

After  a  while  he  takes  a  resolution  :  he  will  read  it 
in  her  presence.  Then,  if  there  is  anything  in  it  hard 
to  be  understood,  she  will  interpret.  lie  listens  ;  the 
house  is  quite  quiet.  His  eye  falls  on  the  clock.  She 
has  been  dead  for  three  hours. 

He  takes  the  lamp,  and  steals  noiselessly  up  the 
stairs  to  her  door.  The  key  is  in  it,  and  he  enters. 
The  frost  is  hard  again  about  his  heart,  and  the  sight 


266  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

of  the  sheeted  bed  does  not  at  first  dissolve  it.  It 
seems  to  have  no  connection  witli  his  mother. 

He  sets  down  the  lamp  on  the  table  near  by,  which 
is  piled  with  her  books  of  devotion.  How  many  they 
are  !  From  how  many  minds  has  she  sought  rest  for 
her  soul — that  white  angel-soul,  fit  in  its  perfect  pur- 
ity to  rebuke  the  teachers  at  whose  feet  she  has  so 
meekly  sat ! 

He  has  stepped  to  the  bedside,  and  reverently 
turned  down  the  sheet,  a  sort  of  odd  disbelief  in  her 
being  there  at  all  mingling  with  his  cold  certainty  of 
knowledge  that  she  is.  He  looks  steadfastly  at  her 
for  a  moment  or  two — looks  at  her  lying  there  beau- 
tiful and  happy,  as  the  newly  dead  are  wont  to  look, 
even  those  who  in  life  have  been  unbeautiful  and 
wretched.  How  much  more  she,  that  was  ever  so 
fair ! 

The  next  thing  that  he  is  conscious  of  is  that  he  is 
lying  groveling  on  the  floor  beside  her  bed,  having 
returned  to  the  lisping  accents  of  infancy,  and  cry- 
ing, "  Mammy  !  mammy  !  " 

The  frost  has  broken,  and  he  thinks  that,  in  all 
God's  quiver,  there  can  be  no  more  smarting  shaft 
than  that  with  which  lie  is  now  piercing  him.  But 
before  the  night  is  over  he  knows  better. 

The  morning  has  dawned.  Through  the  night 
none  lias  disturbed  the  man's  vigil.  It  has  filled  the 
sympathizing  household  with  admiring  pity  that  he 
should  have  had  the  will  to  keep  it ;  but  when  the 
sun — late  enough  now  in  leaving  his  bed — has  risen 
well  above  the  heath,  and  has  topped  the  church 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  267 

steeple,  it  seems  to  them  strange  that  the  watcher 
should  not  issue  from  the  room. 

By  and  by  they  have  to  summon  him  upon  some 
necessary  business  connected  with  the  funeral  ar- 
rangements. They  go,  two  together — for  a  sort  of 
chilly  dread  is  upon  their  spirits — the  farmer's  wife 
and  the  lady's  maid,  and  try  the  door.  It  is  locked 
on  the  inside,  and  the  first  two  low  knocks  for  ad- 
mittance produce  no  result.  At  the  third  the  key 
turns,  the  door  opens,  and  Clarence  stands  before 
them.  Both  women  start  back  with  a  low  cry. 

"  God  bless  me,  sir !  I  should  not  have  known  you !" 

"  He  do  take  it  hard,  poor  fellow  ! "  is  the  later 
comment  of  the  mistress  of  the  house.  "His  hair 
turned  like  that  all  in  one  night  ?  But  I  do  wonder 
that  he  should  have  burned  his  ma's  last  letter — the 
very  last  she  ever  wrote  him." 

"  And  she  that  treasured  up  every  scrap  he  had 
ever  wrote  her  ! "  rejoins  the  maid,  in  watery  anti- 
strophe. 

"  He  must  have  done  it,  though,"  rejoins  the 
other,  "  for  Sally  found  the  Aashes,  and  she  says  she 
is  confident  there  was  not  a  mite  of  anything  when 
she  did  up  the  grate  yesterday  ;  and  he  'ad  it  in  his 
'and  as  he  went  upstairs  last  night,  for  I  was  watch- 
ing him  through  the  chink  of  the  kitchen  door." 

They  are  right.  In  the  silence  of  the  dark  hours, 
watching  with  her  through  her  first  night  of  death, 
he  has  burned  the  last  letter  she  can  ever  write  him. 
For  in  that  letter  she  has  made  her  expiation — the 
expiation  which  has  cost  her  her  life. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

THE  autumn  and  winter  go  heavily  by  with  Honor 
Lisle.  They  have  been  spent  wholly  at  her  dreary 
apology  for  a  home,  since  her  mainstay  in  friendship, 
Mrs.  Bevis,  has  gone  on  a  trip  to  America,  and  her 
other  friends  are  few.  Even  if  they  were  many,  the 
total  lack  of  pin-money  in  which  her  father  keeps  her 
would  prevent  her  paying  any  visits  that  required 
even  a  modest  amount  of  toilet. 

Her  loneliness  is  more  complete  than  ever,  since  at 
the  end  of  September  her  old  nurse  had  died.  There 
had  been  a  sense  of  something  painful  come  between 
them  since  the  relation  made  by  Mrs.  Nasmyth  ;  but 
the  girl  nurses  her  tenderly,  and  mourns  her  truly. 

As  she  walks  back  across  the  park  after  the  funeral, 
the  darkness  of  her  spirit  is  deepened  by  the  knowl- 
edge that  now  one  of  the  two  channels  through  which 
freedom  from  the  burden  of  apprehension  under 
which  he  must  stagger  through  life  can  come  to  him 
whom  she  loves  is  forever  stopped.  And  yet  God 
knows  she  dare  not  wish  that  he  may  ever  learn. 

A  month  later,  when  the  park,  unlike  its  poor  little 
mistress,  has  put  on  the  majesty  of  its  gold  and 
scarlet  robes,  she  reads  in  the  papers  the  announce- 
ment of  Mrs.  Clarence's  death.  For  an  hour  she  sits 
stunned.  She  is  gone,  then,  carrying  her  secret  out 


SCYLLA   OR  CHARYBDIS?  269 

of  the  world,  saving  her  good  name,  and  not  even 
having  the  courage  to  stay  and  help  him  to  endure 
that  life  which  her  selfishness  has  made  a  hell. 

But  this  mood,  fiercely  bitter  while  it  lasts,  soon 
yields  to  one  of  immense  compassion.  She  is  dead  ! 
It  has  killed  her,  and  no  wonder.  Recalling  the 
slight  form  and  small  lily  face,  she  accompanies  the 
dead  in  thought,  with  awed  pity,  through  the  stages 
of  her  Calvary,  down  the  steps  of  her  agonized  descent 
to  the  grave,  and,  stirred  to  the  depths  of  a  naturally 
most  pitiful  heart,  she  breaks  into  long  sobs  and 
scalding  tears.  Yet  as  time  goes  on  she  realizes,  by 
the  added  despondency  of  her  own  spirit,  how  much 
secret  hope  she  must  have  nourished  that  her  love 
might  have  received  his  release — awful  as  the  suffer- 
ing accompanying  that  release  would  have  been — 
from  the  hand  that  can  now  never  manumit  him. 

And  as  the  shortening  days  march  past  in  ever- 
darkening  procession,  a  horrid  temptation  assails  her. 
It  is  in  her  poxver  alone  now  to  redeem  him.  Why 
should  not  she  do  it  ?  Her  soul  never  willingly 
entertains  the  ugly  guest,  yet  it  comes  back  and 
back — sometimes  in  its  native  hideousness,  sometimes 
tricked  out  mockingly  like  a  duty.  It  comes  back 
and  back  at  intervals  through  the  winter, — the 
enormous  black  winter, — with  its  innumerous  hours 
of  candlelight,  when  not  even  an  Honor  Lisle  can 
be  out  of  doors.  She  fights  it  with  all  the  weapons 
in  her  armory — with  eager  work  for  bird  and  beast 
and  poor  neighbor,  with  uncongenial  occupation  of 
distasteful  book  and  uphill  study,  and  lastly  with 
frightened,  insistent  prayer. 
18 


270  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS  ? 

But  even  when  February  ushers  in  her  lengthening 
days,  snowdrop  betrimmed,  it  is  not  wholly  sub- 
dued. It  is  pushing  her  hard  one  morning  toward 
the  middle  of  the  month,  when  all  the  twenty-two 
kinds  of  birds  in  her  bower  oak  are  making  ready  for 
their  bridals,  with  epithalamiums  as  melodious  as 
Spenser's.  She  is  glad  when  the  opening  door,  dis- 
closing the  young  woman  who  has  taken  Mrs.  Na- 
smyth's  place  as  her  attendant,  effects  a  momentary 
diversion  to  the  tyranny  of  her  thought. 

"If  you  please,  'm,  there  is  a  gentleman  in  the  blue 
saloon  that  wishes  to  know  if  he  could  speak  to 
you." 

"  A  gentleman  ?  what  sort  of  a  gentleman  ?" 

The  words  are  steady  and  quiet,  but  a  Bedlamite 
hope  is  making  the  heart  behind  them  curvet  and 
bound. 

"  I  could  not  say  very  well,  'm,  for  only  one 
of  the  windows  was  unshuttered  ;  but  I  should  say 
he  is  an  elderly  sort  of  gentleman — his  hair  is  quite 
gray." 

The  Bedlamite  hope  goes  out,  and  in  its  extinction 
is  recognized  as  having  been  Bedlamite. 

"  You  had  better  ask  him  what  he  wants  ;  I  sup- 
pose he  is  someone  on  business  from  Tranby." 

She  says  it  with  a  sinking  heart.  It  is  probably 
one  of  the  too-assiduous  duns  whom  her  father  leaves 
her  to  grapple  with. 

"  Oh,  no,  'm," — warmly, — "  he  is  quite  the  gentle- 
man." 

"You  should  say  quite  a  gentleman,  not  quite 
the  gentleman,  Martha"— the  new  attendant  is  a 


SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS?  271 

raw  girl  whom  Honor  is  conscientiously  trying 
to  train.  "  Stay,  I  had  better  speak  to  him  my- 
self." 

Her  opinion  of  her  maid's  perspicacity  is  not  high 
enough  to  lessen  her  confidence  in  the  probable 
character  of  the  visitor,  and  it  is  with  the  familiar 
sense  of  trepidating  shame  that  she  enters  the  blue 
saloon,  and  makes  her  way  through  its  sea  of  brown- 
holland  to  the  one  unshuttered  window. 

The  stranger  is  standing  with  his  back  to  her, 
looking  out.  He  is  dressed  in  black.  He  has  a 
slight  stoop  from  the  shoulders — yes,  he  must  be 
an  elderly  man.  Then  he  turns,  and  for  a  whole 
long  minute  there  is  dead  silence.  Is  it  possible 
that  this  is  he? 

"  I  have  been  ill,"  he  says,  in  a  voice  which  she 
finds  it  as  difficult  to  piece  on  to  her  memory  of 
him  as  she  has  already  done  in  the  case  of  his 
looks. 

«  Yes." 

Another  full  minute  of  total  dumbness ;  but 
the  paralysis  that  had  nailed  her  to  the  spot 
when  she  first  stayed  her  steps  is  slackening  its 
hold.  She  is  stealing  nearer,  nearer  to  him.  She 
is  quite  close  to  him  now,  her  riveted  eyes  fastened 
on  his  stricken  face — stricken,  smitten,  furrowed 
by  plowshares  of  agon}' — and  she  knows  that  he 
knows ! 

Aged,  broken,  sunken-eyed,  shrunk,  and  with 
blanched  head,  God  has  given  him  back  to  her  ! 

She  raises  her  arms,  and  her  hands  steal  most 
softly  to  his  bowed  shoulders,  and  thence  to  his  face, 


272  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBD1S  ? 

which,  with  tender  compulsion,  she  draws  down  to 
hers. 

"  Hast  tliou  any  mind  of  me  ?  " 

His  head  falls  forward  on  her  neck,  and  with  a 
storm  of  life-giving  tears  his  answer  comes  : 

"  I  have  even  great  mind  of  thee  !  " 

It  is  the  only  explanation  they  ever  have. 


THE    END. 


\PPLETONS1   TOWN   AND   COUNTRY   LIBRARY. 

PUBLISHED  SEMIMONTHLY. 


1.  The  Steel  Hammer.    By  Louis  ULBACH. 

2.  Ece.    A  Novel.    By  S.  BARING-GOULD. 

3.  For  Fifteen  Years.    A  Sequel  to  The  Steel  Hammer.    By  Louis  ULBACH. 

4.  .4  Counsel  of  Perfection.    A  Novel.    By  LUCAS  MALET. 

5.  The  Dtenmur.    A  Romance.    By  HALL  CAINE. 

6.  A  Virginia  Inheritance.    By  EDMUND  PENDLETON. 

7.  yinette:  An  Idyll  of  Provence.    By  the  author  of  Ve>a. 

8.  "  The  Bight  Honourable."   By  JUSTIN  MCCARTHY  and  Mrs.  CAMPBELL-PRAEE. 

9.  The  Silence  of  Dean  Maitland.    By  MAXWELL  GRAY. 

10.  Mrs.  Lorime'r :  A  Study  in  Black  and  White.    By  LUCAS  MALET. 

11.  The  Elect  Lady.    By  GEORGE  MACDONALD. 

12.  The  Mystery  of  the  "Ocean  Star."    By  W.  CLARK  RUSSELL. 

13.  Aristocracy.    A  Novel. 

14.  A  Recoiling  Vengeance.    By  FRANK  BARRETT.    With  Illustrations. 

15.  The  Secret  of  Fonlain-.-la-Croix.    By  MARGARET  FIELD. 

16.  The  Master  of  Rathkelly.    By  HAWLEY  SMART. 

17.  Donovan :  A  Modern  Englishman.    By  EDNA  LTALL. 

18.  This  Mortal  Coil.    By  GRANT  ALLEN. 

19.  A  Fair  Emigrant.    By  ROSA  MULHOLLAND. 

20.  The  Apostate.    By  ERNEST  DAUDET. 

81.  Raleigh  Westgate";  or,  Epimenides  in  Maine.    By  HELEN  KENDBICK  JOHNSON. 

22.  Arius  the  Libyan:  A  Romance  of  the  Primitive  Church. 

23.  Constance,  and  Galoot's  Rival.    By  JULIAN  HAWTHORNE. 

24.  We  Two.    By  EDNA  LYALL. 

25.  A  Dreamer  of  Dreams.    By  the  author  of  Thoth. 

26.  The  Ladies' 'Gallery.    By  JUSTIN  MCCARTHY  and  Mrs.  CAMPBELL-PBABD. 

27.  The  Reproach  of  Annesley.    By  MAXWELL  GRAY. 

28.  Xear  to  Happiness. 

29.  In  the  Wire-  Grafs.    By  Louis  PENDLETON. 

30.  Lace.    A  Berlin  Romance.    By  PAUL  LINDAU. 

31.  American  Coin.    A  Novel.    By  the  author  of  Aristocracy. 

32.  Won  by  Waiting.    By  EDNA  LYALL. 

33.  The  Story  of  Helen  Darenant.    By  VIOLET  FANE. 

34.  The  Light  of  Her  Countenance.    By  H.  H.  BOYESEN. 

35.  Mistress  Beatrice  Cope.    By  M.  E.  LE  CLERC. 

36.  The  Knight- Errant.    By  EDNA  LYALL. 

37.  In  the  Golden  Day*.    By  EDNA  LYALL. 

38.  Giraldi ;  or,  The  Curse  of  Love.    By  Ross  GEORGE  BERING. 

39.  A  Hardy  Horseman.    By  EDXA  LYALL. 

40.  The  Romance  of  Jenny  Hurloice,  and  Sketches  of  Maritime  Life.     By  W 

CLARK  RUSSELL. 

41.  Passion's  Slave.    By  RICHARD  ASHE-KING. 

42.  The  Awakening  of  Mary  Fen  wick.    By  BEATRICE  WHITBY. 

43.  Countess  Loreley.    Translated  from  the  German  of  RUDOLF  MENGER. 

44.  Blind  Love.    By  WILKIE  COLLINS. 

45.  The  Dean's  Daughter.    By  SOPHIE  F.  F.  VEITCH. 

46.  Countess  Irene.    A  Romance  of  Austrian  Life.    By  J.  FOGERTY. 

47.  Robert  Browning's  Princip<il  Shorter  Poems. 

48.  Frozen  Hearts.    By  G.  WEBB  APPLETON. 

49.  Djambek  the  Georgian.    By  A.  G.  vox  SUTTNER. 

50.  The  Craze  of  Christian  JSngt&art.    By  HENRY  FAULKNER  DARNELL. 

51.  Lai.    By  WILLIAM  A.  HAMMOND,  M.D. 

52.  Aline     A  Novel.    By  HENRY  GREVILLE. 

53.  Joost  Avelingh.    A  Dutch  Story.    By  MAARTEN  MAAHTENS. 
*4.  Katy  of  Catoctin.    By  GEORGE  ALFRED  TOWNSEND. 

55.  Throckmorron.    A  Novel.    By  MOLLY  ELLIOT  SEAWELL. 
56   Expatriation.    By  the  author"  of  Aristocracy. 
*7.  Geoffrey  Hampstead.    By  T.  S.  JARVIS. 


APPLE-TONS'  TOWN  AND  COUNTRY  LIBRARY.— (Continued.) 

58.  Dmiiri.    A  Romance  of  Old  Russia.    By  F.  W.  BAIN,  M.  A. 

59.  Part  of  the  Property.    By  BEATRICE  WHITBY. 

60.  Bismarck  in  Private  Life.    By  a  Fellow-Student. 

61.  In  Low  Relief.    By  MORLEY  ROBERTS. 

62.  The  Canadians  of  Old.    A  Historical  Romance.    By  PHILIPPE  GASPE. 

63.  A  Squire  of  Low  Degree.    By  LILY  A.  LONG. 

64.  A  Fluttered  Dovecote.    By  GEORGE  MANVILLE  FENN. 

65.  The  Nugent*  of  Oarriconna.    An  Irish  Story.    By  TIGHE  HOPKINS. 

66.  A  Sensitive  Plant.    By  E.  and  D.  GERARD. 

67.  Dona  Luz.    By  JUAN  VALERA.    Translated  by  Mrs.  MARY  J.  SERRANO. 

68.  Pepita  Ximenez.    By  JUAN  VALEHA.    Translated  by  Mrs.  MARY  J.  SERRANO 

69.  The  Primes  and  their  Neighbors.    By  RICHARD  MALCOLM  JOHNSTON. 

70.  The  Iron  Game.    By  HENRY  F.  KEENAN. 

71.  Stories  of  Old  New  Spain.    By  THOMAS  A.  JANVIER. 

72.  The  Maid  of  Honor.    By  Hon.  LEWIS  WINGFIELD. 

73.  In  the  Heart  of  the  Storm.    By  MAXWELL  GRAY. 

74.  Consequences.    By  EGERTON  CASTLE. 

75.  The  Three  Miss  Kings.    By  ADA  CAMBRIDGE. 

76.  A  Matter  of  Skill.    By  BEATRICE  \VHITBY. 

77.  Maid  Manan,  and  other  Stories.    By  MOLLY  ELLIOT  SEAWBLII. 

78.  One  Woman's  Way.    By  EDMUND  PENDLETOS. 

79.  A  Merciful  Divorce.    By  F.  W.  MAUDE. 

80.  Stephen  EUicott's  Daughter.    By  Mrs.  J.  H.  NEEDELL. 

81.  One  Reason  Why.    By  BEATRICE  WHITBY. 

82.  The.  Tragedy  of  Ida  Noble.    By  W.  CLARK  RUSSELL. 

83.  The  Johnstown  Stage,  and  other  Stories.    By  ROBERT  H.  FLETCHER. 

84.  A  Widower  Indeed.    By  RHODA  BROUGHTON  and  ELIZABETH  BISLAND. 

85.  The.  Flight  of  the  Shadow.    By  GEORGE  MACDONALD. 

86.  Love  or  Money.    By  KATHARINE  LEE. 

87.  Not  All  in  Vain.    By  ADA  CAMBRIDGE. 

88.  It  Happened  Yesterday.    By  FREDERICK  MARSHALL. 

89.  My  G-uardian.    By  ADA  CAMBRIDGE. 

90.  The  Story  of  Philip  Methven.    By  Mrs.  J.  H.  NEEDELL. 

91.  Amethyst:  The  Story  of  a  Beanty.    By  CHRISTABEL  R.  COLERIDGE. 

92.  Don  Braulio.    By  JUAN  VALERA.    Translated  l>y  CLARA  BEI.L. 

93.  The  Chronicles  of  Mr.  Bill  Williams.    By  RICHARD  MALCOLM  JOHNSTON 

94.  A  Queen  of  Curds  and  Cream.    By  DORO'THEA  GERARD. 

95.  "  La  Bella  "  and  Others.    By  EGERTON  CASTLE. 

96.  "  December  Roses."    By  Mrs.  CAMPBELL-PRAED. 

97.  Jean  de  Kerdren.    By  JEANNE  SCHULTZ. 

98.  Etelka's  Vow.    By  DOROTHEA  GERARD. 

99.  Cross  Currents.    By  MARY  A.  DICKENS. 

100.  His  Lifers  Magnet.    By  THEODORA  ELMSLIE. 

101.  Passing  the  Lone  of  Women.    By  Mrs.  J.  H.  NEEDELI.. 

102.  In  Old  St.  Stephen's.    By  JEANIE  DRAKE. 

103.  The  Berkeleys  and  their  Neighbors.    By  MOLLY  ELLIOT  SEAWELP 

104.  Jfona  Maclean,  Medical  Student.    By  GRAHAM  TRAVERS. 

105.  Mrs.  Bligh.    By  RHODA  BROUGHTOX. 

106.  A  StunMe  on  the  Threshold.    By  JAMES  PAYN. 

107.  Hanging  Moss.    By  PAUL  LINDAU. 

108.  A  Comedy  of  Elopement.    By  CHRISTIAN  REID. 

109.  In  the  Suntime  of  her  Youth.    By  BEATRICE  WHITBY. 

110.  Stories  in  Black  and  White.    By  THOMAS  HARDY  and  Others. 
110J.  An  Englishman  in  Paris.    Notes  and  Recollections. 

111.  Commander  Mendoza.    By  JUAN  YALERA. 

112.  Dr.  PauU's  Theory.    By  Mrs.  A.  M.  DIEHL. 

113.  Children  of  Destiny.    By  MOLLY  ELLIOT  SEAWELL. 

114.  A  Little  Minx.    By  ADA  CAMBRIDGE. 

115.  Capt'n  Davy's  Honeymoon.    Bv  HALL  CAINB. 

116.  The  Voice  of  a  Flower.    By  E.'GERAKD. 

117.  Singularly  'Deluded.    By  SARAH  GRAND. 

118.  Suspected.    By  LOUISA  STRATENI~S. 

119.  Lucia,  Hugh,  and  Another.    By  Mrs.  J.  H.  NEEDEU,. 

120.  The  Tutor's  Secret.    By  VICTOR  CHERBULEEZ. 


APPLETONS'  TOWN  AND  COUNTRY  LIBRARY.— (Continued.) 

121.  From  the  Five  Rivers.    By  Mrs.  F.  A.  STEEL. 

122.  An  Innocent  Impostor,  and  Other  Stories.    By  MAXWELL  GRAY. 

123.  Ideala.    By  SARAII  GRAND. 

124.  A  Comedy  of  Masks.    By  ERNEST  DOWSON  and  ABTHCB  MOORK. 

125.  Relics.    By  FRANCES  MACRAE. 

126.  Dodo:  A  Detail  of  the  Day.    By  E.  F.  BENSON. 

127.  A  Woman  of  Forty.    By  KSME  STUART. 

128.  Diana  Tempest.    By  MART  CHOLMONDELEY. 

129.  The  Recipe  for  Diamonds.     By  C.  J.  CUTCLIPFE  HYNE. 

130.  Christina.  Chard.    By  Mrs.  CAMPBELL-PRAED. 

131.  A  Gray  Eye  or  So.    By  FRANK  FRANKFORT  MOORE. 

132.  Earlscourt.    By  ALEXANDER  ALLARDYCE. 

133.  A  Marriage  Ceremony.     By  ADA  CAMBRIDGE. 

134.  A  Ward  in  Chancery.     By  Mrs.  ALEXANDER 

135.  Lot  13.    By  DOROTHEA  GERARD. 

136.  Our  Manifold  Xatnre.     By  SARAH  GRAND. 

137.  A  Costly  Freak.    By  MAXWELL  GRAY. 

138.  A  Beginner.    By  RHODA  BROUGHTON. 

139.  A  Yellow  Aster.    By  Mrs.  MANNINQTON  CAFFYN  ("!OTA"). 

140.  The  Rubicon.    By  E.  F.  BENSON. 

141.  The  Trespasser.    By  GILBERT  PARKER. 

142.  The  Rich  Miss  Ridrlell.    By  DOROTHEA  GERARD. 

143.  Mary  Femcick's  Daughter.    By  BEATRICE  WHITBY. 

144.  Red  Diamonds.    By  JUSTIN  MCCARTHY. 

145.  A  Daughter  of  Music.    By  G.  COLMORE. 

146.  Outlaw  and  Lawmaker.     By  Mrs.  CAMPBELL-PRAED. 

147.  Dr.  Janet  of  Harley  Street.    By  ARABELLA  KENEALY. 

148.  George  MandevUle's  Husband.    By  C.  E.  RAIMOND. 

149.  Vastiti  and  Esther. 

150.  Timar's  Two  Worlds.    By  M.  JOKAI. 

151.  A  rictim  of  Good  Luck.     By  W.  E.  NORRIS. 

152.  The  Trail  of  the  Sword.    By  GILBERT  PARKER. 

153.  A  Mild  Barbarian.    By  EDGAR  FAWCETT. 

154.  The  God  in  the  Car.    By  ANTHONY  HOPE. 

155.  Children  of  Circumstance.    By  Mrs.  M.  CAFFYN  ("  IOTA"). 

156.  At  the  Gate  qf_  Samaria.     By  WILLIAM  J.  LOCKE. 

157.  The  Justification  of  Andrew  Lebrun.    By  FRANK  BARRETT. 

158.  Dust  and  Laurels.    By  MARY  L.  PENDERED. 

159.  The  Good  Ship  Mohock.    By  W.  CLARK  RUSSELL. 

160.  Noeni.    By  8.  BARING-GOULD. 

161.  The  Honour  of  Saretti.     By  S.  LEVETT  YEATS. 

162.  Kitty's  Engagement.    By  FLORENCE  WARDEN. 

163.  The  Mermaid.    By  L.  DOUGALL. 

164.  An  Arranged  Marriage.    By  DOROTHEA  GERARD. 

165.  Ere's  Ransom.    By  GEORGE  GISSING. 

166.  The  Marriage  of  Esther.    By  GUY  BOOTHBY. 

167.  Fidelis.    By  ADA  CAMBRIDGE. 

168.  Into  the  Highways  and  Hedges.    By  F.  F.  MONTR^SOR. 

169.  The  Vengeance  of  James  Vansittart.    By  Mrs.  J.  H.  NEEDELL. 

170.  A  Study  in  Prejudices.     By  GEORGE  PASTON. 

171.  The  Mistress  of  Quest.     By  ADELINE  SERGEANT. 

172.  In  the  Year  of  Jubilee.    By  GEOBGK  GISSING. 

173.  In  Old  yew  'England.     By  HEZEKIAH  BUTTERWORTH. 

174.  Mrs.  Musgrave — and  Her  Husband.    By  RICHARD  MARSH. 

175.  Xot  Counting  the  Cost.    By  TASMA. 

176.  Out  of  Due  Season.    By  ADELINE  SERGEANT. 


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in  any  previous  essay.  Her  brilliancy  of  thought  and  style  is  familiar,  but 
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brought  to  it  as  much  as  they  took  away.  ...  I  have  called  my  story  a  saga,  merely 
because  it  follows  the  epic  method,  and  I  must  not  claim  for  it  at  any  point  the  weighty 
responsibility  of  history,  or  serious  obligations  to  the  world  of  fact  But  it  matters  not 
to  me  what  Icelanders  may  call  '  The  Bondman,'  if  they  will  honor  me  by  reading  it  in 
the  open-hearted  spirit  and  with  the  free  mind  with  which  they  are  content  to  read  of 
Grettir  and  of  his  fights  with  the  Troll."— From  the  Author's  Preface. 

S^APT'N    DAVY'S    HONEYMOON.      A    Manx 
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alway?  that  an  author  can  succeed  equally  well  in  tragedy  and  in  comedy,  but  it  looks 
as  though  Mr.  Hall  Caine  would  be  one  of  the  exceptions." — London  Literary 
World. 

"  It  is  pleasant  to  meet  the  author  of  '  The  Deemster '  in  a  brightly  humorous  little 
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tion of  character." — Boston  Transcript. 

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cago Evening  Journal. 

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"  Its  surprises  are  as  unexpected  as  Frank  Stockton's,  but  they  are  the  surprises 
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"  This  story  by  Ada  Cambridge  is  one  of  her  best,  and  to  say  that  is  to  at  once 
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NOVELS  BY  MAARTEN  MAARTENS. 

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novelists.  His  '  God's  Fool '  and  'Joost  Avelingh '  made  for  him  an  American  reputa- 
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"Maarten  Maartens  has  secured  a  firm  footing  in  the  eddies  of  current  literature. 
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phia Ledger. 

"  Its  preface  alone  stamps  the  author  as  one  of  the  leading  English  novelists  of 
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'OOST  AVELINGH.      By  MAARTEN    MAARTENS. 

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ANY  INVENTIONS.     By  RUDYARD   KIPLING 

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"The  reader  turns  from  its  pages  with  the  conviction  that  the  author  has  no  supe 
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o  which  none  of  his  contemporaries  approach  him — the  ability  to  select  out  of  countless 
Jetails  the  few  vital  ones  which  create  the  finished  picture.  He  knows  how,  with  a 
phrase  or  a  word,  to  make  you  see  his  characters  as  he  sees  them,  to  make  you  feel 
the  full  meaning  of  a  dramatic  situation," — New  York  Tribune. 

"'Many  Inventions'  will  confirm  Mr.  Kipling's  reputation.  .  .  .  We  would  cite 
with  pleasure  sentences  from  almost  every  page,  and  extract  incidents  from  almost 
every  story.  But  to  what  end?  Here  is  the  completes!  book  that  Mr.  Kipling  has  yet 
eiven  us  in  workmanship,  the  weightiest  and  most  humane  in  breadth  of  view." — 
Pall  Mall  Gazette. 

"  Mr.  Kipling's  powers  as  a  story-teller  are  evidently  not  diminishing.  We  advise 
everybody  to  buy  *  Many  Inventions,'  and  to  profit  by  some  of  the  best  entertainment 
that  modern  fiction  has  to  ofier." — .VVw  York  Sun. 

"  '  Many  Inventions'  will  be  welcomed  wherever  the  English  language  is  spoken. 
.  .  .  Every  one  of  the  stories  bears  the  imprint  of  a  master  who  conjures  up  incident 
as  if  by  magic,  and  who  portrays  character,  scenery,  and  feeling  with  an  ease  which  a 
only  exceeded  by  the  boldness  offeree." — Boston  Globe. 

"The  book  will  get  and  hold  the  closest  attention  of  the  reader." — American 
Bookseller. 

"  Mr.  Rudyard  Kipling's  place  in  the  world  of  letters  is  unique.  He  sits  quite  aloof 
and  alone,  the  incomparable  and  inimitable  master  of  the  exquisitely  fine  art  of  short- 
story  writing.  Mr.  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  has  perhaps  written  several  tales  which 
match  the  run  of  Mr.  Kipling's  work,  but  the  best  of  Mr.  Kipling's  tales  are  matchless, 
and  his  latest  collection,  'Many  Inventions,'  contains  several  such." — Philadelphia 
Press. 

"Of  late  essays  in  fiction  the  work  of  Kipling  can  be  compared  to  only  three — 
Blackmore's  '  Lorna  Doone,"  Stevenson's  marvelous  sketch  of  Villon  in  the  'New 
Arabian  Nights,'  and  Thomas  Hardy's  '  Tess  of  the  D'Urbervilles.'  ...  It  is  probably 
owing  to  this  extreme  care  that  '  Many  Inventions  '  is  undoubtedly  Mr.  Kipling's  best 
book." — Chicago  Post. 

"  Mr.  Kipling's  style  is  too  well  known  to  American  readers  to  require  introduction, 
but  it  can  scarcely  be  amiss  to  say  there  is  not  a  story  in  this  collection  that  does  not 
more  than  repay  a  perusal  of  them  all." — Baltimore  American. 

"  As  a  writer  of  short  stories  Rudyard  Kipling  is  a  genius.  He  has  had  imitators, 
but  they  have  not  been  successful  in  dimming  the  luster  of  his  achievements  by  con. 
trast.  .  .  .  'Many  Inventions'  is  the  title.  And  they  are  inventions— entirely  origi- 
nal in  incident,  ingenious  in  plot,  and  startling  by  their  boldness  and  force." — Rochester 
Herald. 

"  How  clever  he  is !  This  must  always  be  the  first  thought  on  reading  such  a 
collection  of  Kipling's  stories.  Here  is  art — art  of  the  most  consummate  sort.  Com- 
pared with  this,  the  stories  of  our  brightest  young  writers  become  commonplace."— 
New  York  Evangelist. 

"  Taking  the  group  as  a  whole,  it  may  be  said  that  the  execution  is  up  to  his  best 
In  the  past,  while  two  or  three  sketches  surpass  in  rounded  strength  and  vividness  ot 
imagination  anything  else  he  has  done." — Hartford  Courant. 

"Fifteen  more  extraordinary  sketches,  without  a  tinge  of  sensationalism,  it  would 
t>e  hard  to  find.  .  .  .  Every  one  has  an  individuality  of  its  own  which  fascinates  tl>  > 
leader." — Boston  Times. 


New  York:  D.  APPLETON  &  CO..  72  Fifth  Avenue. 


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